


The Longest Way Round is the Shortest Way Home

by derevko_child



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dinosaurs, Evil Doppelgangers, F/M, Gen, Outer Space, Tahiti (Agents of SHIELD), characters to be tagged as they appear, diverges from 6.02/6.03, i was disappointed with season 6 so i made my own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevko_child/pseuds/derevko_child
Summary: “I think I figured it out.” Mack finally says, “why those things might be here, what’s causing these… anomalies.”The sigh he makes is long and exhausted. It sounds overburdened and frustrated, the same sigh she’s heard from Fury, Hill and Coulson that it cuts down the anger simmering in her chest as she looks at him with concern.Part 5 - The SHIELD Team prepares for alternate universe travel. May and Sarge find themselves in a spiky situation.[diverges from 6.02 for Team Earth; half of 6.03 for Team Space]
Relationships: Melinda May & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Melinda May & Yo Yo Rodriguez, Phil Coulson/Melinda May
Comments: 38
Kudos: 85





	1. A Whale of a Tale

Something feels… off.

The ground feels different underneath her feet— subtly unstable and pebbly, even when she’s standing on smooth terrain. The glare of the sun feels harsher and the sky’s too bright it hurts the eyes. The air seems sharper in her lungs; disquiet seems to cling to her skin when the wind blows too hard.

It’s probably the trauma catching up to her. Adrenaline, stress, pain and all other emotions kept it at bay.

A metal pipe went through her leg and it still twinges every now and then; of course, the ground will feel uneven.

She went to a dystopic, apocalyptic future where everything was dark and gray; of course, the sun and the sky would feel too intense.

Phil Coulson took his last breath with her by his side and it felt like her heart was ripped from her chest; of course, breathing will hurt.

(The mere idea that she’s still breathing after he died _hurts_ )

She’s been through it all – trauma, pain, grief – and it’s the predictability of her surroundings that steadied her. The knowledge that, notwithstanding a disaster, everything around her will stay the same: that every time she pushes the door going to the common room in the base, it will noisily scrape against the floor; that her neighbor will always keep watch over his garbage on the curb until someone picks it up; and the pothole in the intersection near the apartment she still pretends to live in will always be there.

And yes, the door to the common room still scrapes the floor when it’s being opened, and her neighbor’s obsession with his garbage has no bounds, and unless the city fixes its budget, that pothole will always be there. But everything else – whether its nature, or the universe – feels like they decided to dance to a new song and her body’s still trying to figure out what the beat is.

She feels like an unspooled thread being haphazardly respooled.

(Or maybe this is grief manifesting itself in a different way. It would be apt, though, that mourning for Phil would feel like an imbalance in the universe)

So, she claws her way back into work, devoting herself to SHIELD in the same way Phil did. It’s a way to honor his memory and to continue his legacy.

She tells people that she was healing. It was a lie— _everyone_ including her knows it’s a lie. Every day, it still feels like there’s part of her that been excised from her body and she feels so hollow. She knows she would heal, over time. The lie’s just there to remind her that she _can_ move on.

Then, almost a year after he died, someone with Phil Coulson’s face comes along and wreaks havoc.

“How are you holding up?” 

Melinda looks up from the mug of tea she brewed for herself a few minutes ago and sees Mack standing by the kitchen door. It’s been hours after her encounter with the impostor and the team whom she foolishly thought she could easily take down. 

She thought she can distinguish Coulson from their interloper; that it’ll be easy to nip their current problem in the bud.

But the moment she heard his voice… the moment she saw _him_ , she froze.

_Fucking bastard._

She went straight to her quarters when they returned to the base, leaving Elena to face the debriefing alone.

Melinda shrugs at Mack, who took it as a signal that it was okay to approach her.

She wraps her fingers around the warm mug, staring at the brown liquid as Mack sits down across her.

“Elena said you lost them.” He says after a while.

She appreciates that Mack didn’t force her to go through a debrief; that he understood she needed to process the encounter on her own. She’d been eager to kill that man, that… thing, and she came back with nothing but sweat and blood.

“I incapacitated his team. And then I heard him. I _saw_ him.” She says through gritted teeth, “I froze.”

The bitterness in her tone was unintended but she couldn’t help it. She’s been an agent for more than twenty years— she’s not supposed to act like this was her first field mission, let alone _freeze_.

Mack doesn’t say anything. There’s no manual on how to deal with the evil genetic double of the people you love.

(maybe they _should_ have a handbook for it, after all of this is over. If they come out of it alive)

They sit in silence for a few minutes. It’s late; anyone who wasn’t assigned to night shift had already gone home and everyone else who chose to have sleeping quarters in the base had already retired to bed.

At six sub-levels below the landing pad, the kitchen is one of the quietest places in the base. The silence hurts her ears.

“I think I figured it out.” Mack finally says, “why those things might be here, what’s causing these… anomalies.”

The sigh he makes is long and exhausted. It sounds overburdened and frustrated, the same sigh she’s heard from Fury, Hill and Coulson that it cuts down the anger simmering in her chest as she looks at him with concern. 

It suddenly dawns on her that this is probably the start of the first major crisis Mack will face as Director of SHIELD. And it’s incredibly ironic that it’ll be against someone who has the face of its former leader, whose advice Mack still seeks in times of trouble.

A quizzical expression appears on her face.

“It’s Deke.”

\- - - - -

“His last known location is in a gas station in Nevada along Route 6 and 95.”

“How old is this intel?”

“Five hours at least.”

Eleven months ago, Mack found out that Deke Shaw was not erased from existence when they stopped Talbot from destroying Earth.

SHIELD has been tracking down his movements ever since.

(She was informed that it stirred up a heated debate within the Space team about time-traveling and whether they actually stopped the future from happening. But considering that none of them were physicists, the debate turned into some sort of pop culture battle where the person who can identify the most time-travel movie wins.

Davis won.)

Records and surveillance show that Deke’s gone on a road trip in the past year, finding himself in the company of hippies before hanging out with the truckers and bikers. He got in the latter’s good graces and, judging from the grainy images of him looking like a stereotypical shady white guy in a gas station, has apparently learned how to ride a motorcycle.

Records also show that when they chronologically list down the… _anomalies_ that had been happening in the past year and put it on a map, they align perfectly to when Deke had passed through.

(It’s not just the electro-magnetic fluctuations. It’s also the reports from these places in the past few months, ranging from too many ghost sightings in Dayton, an honest-to-god, living dinosaur that pops in and out in Omaha, and what seems to be a zeppelin crash-landing in the Chihuahuan Desert in New Mexico)

Satellite images indicate two motels going in either direction of Deke’s last location. They’re both called the _Roadside Roadhouse_ , and both are at least an hour’s drive away from the gas station.

_“… if you’re going on a road trip, the Roadside Roadhouse is found in almost all major interstate highways, like the Hilton of motels, but if the Hilton caters to serial killers who prefer the 70’s vibe and would like all its guests to have head lice after their visit...”_

Elena’s voice is sharp and crisp in her headset after they take off from the Lighthouse. The other agent is in the co-pilot seat at the other jet, leading Team Charlie to the motel south of the gas station. 

_“… 1 out of 5 stars because their shower heater still works.”_

“Generous.” She dryly answers

While she would normally prefer silence – especially radio silence – when she’s flying, Elena reading horrible online reviews of their destination is somewhat easing the strain in her muscles, which hasn’t gone away since the encounter with the impostor and his crew.

_“If he has lice from staying in these places, he’s going to Quarantine.”_

“He doesn’t have to have lice.” She suggests, eliciting a laugh from the younger woman.

_“We’re switching to autopilot in a few minutes. And I know how much you love silence when you fly, May.”_ Elena says, _“We’ll radio in if we got trouble.”_

The flight time is close to three hours. Melinda browses through the reports regarding Deke’s road trip throughout the past year while the quinjet is on autopilot.

Before they landed, Elena radios in and bids her a good luck— neither of them wants to deal with Deke at this moment, much less tell him why they need to bring him in.

(or be the one to tell him about the people they lost)

She lands the jet in the desert. Agents Diaz and Boothe stays behind as in case they need air support and she leaves with Agent Keller and the rest of Team Bravo.

The sun is still rising in the horizon when they roll out, but time works differently in the desert. When they stop in front of the _Roadside Roadhouse_ five minutes later, the sun was high up in the sky.

If the internet is to be believed, the first _Roadside Roadhouse_ was built in Nevada back when the Las Vegas casinos were still controlled by the mob. It then spread through neighboring states and has touted itself as the highway driver’s constant companion throughout the country.

For her, it looks the same as every other roadhouse-in-the-middle-of-nowhere that she had ever unfortunately found herself in. This one looks as if it last got repainted a decade ago and whatever color it was, it had faded and turned brown like the desert.

She has a feeling every _Roadside Roadhouse_ looks just like this, no matter what part of the country it might be.

The parking lot has an old pickup and a three-year-old Toyota model but no motorcycle in sight. Still, Melinda heads straight towards the door with the ‘open’ sign the wrong way up, flanked by Keller and Agent Liang while everyone else checks the perimeter.

The stale, pungent mix of cigarette, weed and body odor assaults her nostrils the moment she crosses the doorway. The person behind the reception desk – a thirtysomething white male with unkempt hair taking a smoke in his seat despite the huge ‘no smoking’ sign over his head – scrambles to his feet when he hears them enter.

“Uh, hey, hi. Welcome to… the _Roadside Roadhouse._ ” He says, coughing, as he puts out the cigarette on his makeshift ashtray. “Uh… welcome… welcome?” he repeats, this time, trying not to gape at them.

Melinda doesn’t take her aviators off and shows him a picture of Deke, “Have you seen this man…” she glances at the upturned name plate on the table. _Terrence Cook_. “…Terrence?”

“Uh, I’m Ruben.” He replies. Hesitation falls on his face as he looks at them, “But uh, Terrence… Terrence is fine.” 

He stares at them, obviously intimidated with the guns and the tactical suits. But he keeps eyeing at her nervously.

“We don’t have drugs here… if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m asking about the man.”

Ruben stares at Deke’s picture, “Uh, yeah. Dude came in last night. Paid in cash.” He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and clears his throat, “He had a lot of cash. Loads. Said he’s holding it for some guys.”

“He said that to you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Out loud.”

“People who stay here say weird shit all the time.” Ruben shrugs, “I figure he’s with those biker guys or something.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Uh, his jacket.” He answers, “And… his bike.”

“What room is he in?”

“Uh, 214 but he left… an hour ago?” he glances at the clock, “Said something about needing to deliver something… I wasn’t really… uh, listening.”

She stares at Ruben, and it takes five seconds for him to raise his right hand in panic and points towards right, “He went that way. I saw him go that way. Uh, he’s probably going to the shack where the Hammerheads – uh, the biker gang – meet up. It’s uh… a three-hour drive and he said… he said he needs to get there before ten.”

She orders Keller to check Deke’s room, and Liang to try to get something from the semi-obsolete security camera in the corner of the office before heading out to contact Elena.

Melinda takes several deep breaths of dry desert air before taking her phone out.

Elena picks up after the first ring.

“ _May, we might have a_ small _problem_.” 

“Is it bikers?” Melinda asks, almost with an exasperated sigh. Of course, after a year of wandering around in this non-dystopic era, Deke found himself in the esteemed company of motorcycle-riding gentlemen who would ask wide-eyed idiots from the future to deliver cash to them. 

Who didn’t see that coming?

_“You found him?”_

“No, but I think we know where he’s headed. I’ll call you back when we get more details.”

\- - - - -

She expected a gang of bikers called ‘Hammerheads’ to name their watering hole and meeting place as “Shark’s Head”. “Shark’s Teeth” was also an expected name; or really, anything related to a shark’s body… the big white shark… any group of sharks.

Any name, as long as it’s related to sharks.

Instead, the bar is called _The Whale._

Maybe it’s their version of a Sphinx’s riddle; those who can answer why the watering hole is called _The Whale_ when they’re called Hammerheads gets to be in the gang. Or maybe it’s a question that weeds out who they don’t want— people who ask why they’re named after a shark when their bar is called _The Whale._

(she could see it as a set-up to a lot of jokes that can ignite gang wars)

Either way, the number one rule in _The Whale_ is if you want to get served, you need to have a bike. 

Melinda had the foresight to bring along one of SHIELD’s motorcycles onto the jet before they left.

Team Bravo drops her off at the last hundred-mile stretch. She thought about intercepting Deke _en_ route but the interstate highway is long and barren; a cloaked truck can easily run them over, if the driver’s particularly sadistic.

Phil had always said that she’s a speed demon and she’d always reply with, ‘only when it’s necessary’, and the bike – a sleek, black, Italian-made, SHIELD-modified superbike – gets heavy if she goes slower than a hundred miles per hour. 

She thought going for a hundred twenty per hour would do the trick.

Heads turn when she pulls into the dusty spot by the bar’s entrance and she takes her helmet off.

Five men are standing idly by the parked motorcycles. All of them were a foot taller than her and most of them are double her width.

The wolf whistles were automatic.

“I’ll show you what a real fast _machine_ looks like.” One of them shouts.

“You can ride me as fast you want, _baby_.” Another says, which was almost drowned out by the barks of laughter that followed it.

A quick assessment tells her that she can take them all out in less than three minutes with a precise blow to the head and the knee.

Melinda doesn’t spare them a second glance and heads straight to the shack. She allows her boots to thud through the wooden steps and on the entryway before going through the heavy door.

This time, she allows herself to be surprised. 

On the outside, _The Whale_ literally looks like a dilapidated wooden shack, one city inspection away from being considered a fire hazard. 

But inside? 

Inside, _The Whale_ is all heavy oak and soft leather. The walls are paneled, varnished. There are a few lights on but at the other side of the shack, the stained-glass windows with green accents bring the morning sunshine in. The TV is on, playing a replay of last Sunday’s basketball game.

She was in the Nevada desert just a few seconds ago. Now, it seems she just stepped inside an Irish pub in the middle of Boston.

“What can I get ya, missy?”

The person tending the bar is an older man – late sixties, maybe early seventies – with shock-white hair and bright eyes. Melinda had to stop herself from doing an obvious double-take because he’s wearing a bartender uniform, including the tiny black bow tie.

She quickly scans the room for Hammerheads. 

They’re the only people here.

(where the fuck is Deke?)

“Toasted bread with jam and coffee? Perhaps some scrambled eggs with hot tea?” the man asks as he cautiously scrutinizes her from head to foot. “Or maybe a heavier breakfast with something stronger?”

A beat.

“Tea’s fine.” She casually replies as she approaches the bar, even when there’s a part of her that wants to back out and check if the desert is still outside.

The shelves on the wall behind the bar are well-stocked with various bottles of alcoholic beverages, mostly whiskey and tequila. Its centerpiece, however, is a harpoon that’s almost three feet long, encased in a glass box. It looks ancient and has blackened with age, but she can also see that it’s been carefully preserved. The rope is new, and the dart still looks _sharp_.

“My Pap used to hunt whales to support his family.” The bartender says when he notices her staring at the harpoon. “That’s the only thing my pops got when Pap died.” 

“And he passed it on to you?”

“Hell, no.” He replies with a chuckle, “Stole it. Some soothsayer in ‘Nam told me it’s gonna be needed someday.”

Definitely pushing towards seventy.

“You believed her?”

“Nah.” he answers, as he moves around, preparing her tea, “Forgot about her when the war was over.”

There was a ding behind him, and a plate of toasted bread and scrambled eggs appeared from a tiny window, which she assumed is connected to the kitchen.

He puts a serving mat in front of her and hands her a fork and butter knife wrapped in a table napkin before setting the plate and the cup of tea. There’s a slight tremor in the man’s hands, which he doesn’t seem to notice. At least, not anymore.

“I didn’t….” she trails off when he lazily waves a hand in the air.

“On the house.”

She doesn’t move at first, not quite trusting this man or his food but instincts tell her that it was fine. It’s at that moment when her stomach starts to grumble, reminding her that it’s been hours since her last meal, and betraying her initial plan of merely waiting for Deke.

He waits for her to start eating before resuming his story.

“Vietnam did a number on me. Got into booze, into drugs, waited to die. Moved around, tried to get myself killed. Was already half-dead in a ditch in Baton Rouge when this lady appears out of nowhere, whispering about Pap’s harpoon. Next thing I know, I was in a hospital.”

Usually, it’s the customer who does the talking and the bartender doing the listening, not the other way around.

“Tried to turn my life around. Failed at my first job but then I discovered I’m good at mixing drinks. Got a uniform just like this, which is the most formal piece of clothing I got.”

She wants to ask if he owns the bar and if he does, why he built it in the middle of nowhere. She wants to ask why he lets a biker gang call this place their home, if he wears that uniform all the time… but this man, with his trembling hands and steady voice, seems to be sharing this story for the first time. 

Even though finding Deke is the mission; even though she has a million questions, she feels compelled to listen to him.

“I accepted the fact I was gonna die during the war. I was young and stupid and didn’t know which way I was s’posed to point a rifle.” He quietly says as she eats her breakfast, “then we get to this village and their healer— this scary-looking old lady, approaches me and tells me that my hair’s gonna go white first before I die and that I should take good care of my Pap’s things because someone will need it.”

She takes a sip from her tea. “And now, your hair’s all white.” She remarks.

“And now my hair’s all white.” He repeats after her, with a serene smile that reminds her of Coulson during his final days.

(Phil’s hair never got the chance to go all white)

Melinda feels a lump forming in her throat and she hastily looks down on her food.

For a few good minutes, the only thing that she can hear was the basketball commentary on the TV.

“Tell me, if those boys were here and they ask why the bar is called _The Whale_ when the hammerhead is a shark, what’s gonna be your answer?”

She pauses to think before looking up, “The bar existed before the gang.” She answers and a contemplative expression passes her face, “It’s for the harpoon.”

“Smart cookie.”

A slight scoff. “Just a good listener.”

“Those boys ask that question when they’re recruiting. No one gets it right, even when the thing’s right in their faces. The last recruit… I don’t know, sounds like he got dropped in the head when he was a baby.”

“What did he say?”

“That sharks are just whales with sharp teeth.”

As if on cue, the door at the back opens and she hears a group of men trooping inside, swearing and shouting like there’s no tomorrow. 

“Guys, guys, I got the bike and the money back. Why are you all so angry—”

“—I _toldja_ , he’s gon’ get caught—

“—someone saw _you_ , asshole—”

“—because the recluses _know_ —” 

“—those fucking reapers know you _stole_ them!”

The bartender seems unfazed about the commotion and starts arranging the glasses on the shelf while Melinda finishes the rest of her breakfast.

“Old man, who’s this?” she hears a gruff voice ask, finally realizing they’re not alone.

The bartender stops what he’s doing and glances at the man standing behind her before purposely looking at her.

“Someone I’ve been waiting for, for a long time.”

In that moment, she understands what he didn’t say; finally understands why he’s wearing a bartender’s uniform today.

She wonders how the old Vietnamese lady described the person who’ll need his grandfather’s harpoon or if she told him how he’d die. 

Or if she told him what, exactly, is the harpoon’s grand purpose.

“May?”

Because it’s definitely not for rescuing Deke Shaw from a group of chain-wearing thugs.

“May?” the gruff voice repeats after Deke. “You a cop, May?”

“She’s not a cop, she’s um… she works with my… grandparents.”

_“Rival gang’s incoming. Seven minutes.”_ Keller’s voice suddenly patches through her comms.

Melinda bites back a sigh before turning around to look at Deke and his newfound friends.

As she had expected from the number of voices, there’s four of them. The largest one is almost as big as Mack and holding Deke by the scruff of his neck. The shortest one is a redhead with a scraggly beard and a potbelly; the one slightly taller than Deke has thin arms and thinner wrists while the one at the back has a mousy mustache.

Deke’s eyes light up when he finally sees her face.

“May, hi! How are Bobo and Nana?” he asks, unaware that he sounds _exactly _like an informant asking for an extraction, “Oh, what about Daisy? How’s she doing?”__

__She slides out of her seat, “We need to go.”_ _

__“Um, I’m kinda busy right now?” he answers and makes an exaggerated motion towards the hand gripping the collar of his jacket, “As you can see.”_ _

__“Now.”_ _

__Melinda stands in front of the men, blocking their way. She doesn’t know if they’re aware that the rival gang is heading their way, but she has no intention of being in the middle of _that _fight with Deke.___ _

____“Sorry, fellas, but you heard her. Gotta go.”_ _ _ _

____“You’re both fucking stupid if you think we’re letting him go.” The gruff voice belonged to the shortest guy in the room and it really shouldn’t have surprised her that the leader of this group was also the shortest, but today is just filled with surprises._ _ _ _

____(Obviously, she’ll need to take down Redhead, but Large Guy is the muscle, so she needs to knock him out first. Deke can take care of Thin Wrists; Mousy will definitely make a run for it.)_ _ _ _

____“Did you just call Agent May, stupid?”_ _ _ _

____Deke says it so confidently, so _cockily _that he obviously had not realized he just made everyone in this room think she’s a federal agent… if he even knows what a federal agent is.___ _ _ _

______Time seems to have stopped in the bar as the bikers process what Deke had just said._ _ _ _ _ _

______“She’s a wha—"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Melinda takes it as her chance to strike. She grabs the half-empty plate on the table and throws it as hard as she can at her biggest opponent, hitting him squarely in the left eye._ _ _ _ _ _

______His howl of pain fills the room, and she uses the distraction to charge towards Redhead._ _ _ _ _ _

______(she already knows how this fight will go and how it will end. Redhead might have a good punch, or maybe he’s quick on his feet but his main disadvantage is that he’s short; those arms won’t go too far. Large Guy is… well, he’s large. But she can also see that he doesn’t know how to utilize his legs in a fight. Deke can easily snap Thin Wrists’ wrists. Mousy’s already running out back._ _ _ _ _ _

______It’ll all be over in two minutes.)_ _ _ _ _ _

______She dodges Redhead’s punch and connects two quick blows at his jaw before going low, sweeping her legs underneath him. His arms flail as he falls off-balanced in a daze, crashing through a table and onto the floor._ _ _ _ _ _

______Large Guy bellows as he lunges at her, leaning forward as he tries to grab for her. Melinda easily sidesteps him before grabbing the edge of his clothes, using his momentum to push him towards the other tables._ _ _ _ _ _

______He breaks two tables and three chairs before landing on the floor._ _ _ _ _ _

______She only becomes vaguely aware of someone screaming when it suddenly stops. She sees Deke looking at Thin Wrists on the floor, writhing in pain._ _ _ _ _ _

______The younger man glances at her and beams, “No cops at Pride, only Agent May.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Do you even know what you’re talking about?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Nope.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Melinda stares at him, “Let’s go.” She says before briefly flashing an apologetic look at the bartender – for not being who he thinks she is, for not using the harpoon, for creating one huge mess in his bar – who merely stares after them. She grabs Deke by his elbow and leads him to the front door._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Thanks for the save… not that I needed it. I was doing fine.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Really.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I’ve been through worse, you know. The Kree was basically one big biker gang without, um… motorcycles.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______A gust of hot air pushes against her legs and her arms as she shoves the door open. The desert heat wraps around her, reminding her that they’re still in the Nevada and not in some bar along the busy streets of Boston._ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Ag… May… we… g… tr…o…l.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

______Keller’s voice breaks and crackles in her comms the moment they step out of the bar._ _ _ _ _ _

______“That’s a 10-9, Keller.” She says and stops Deke from moving forward._ _ _ _ _ _

______She only gets the low hiss of static in response._ _ _ _ _ _

______But then she sees it, what Keller was probably referring to: a group of mean-looking, leather-wearing, armed men who have formed a motorcycle barricade in front of the dusty parking area of the bar. They’ve arranged themselves in three lines and their leader, a man who looks more like he spends most of his day farming rather than heading a gang, stands right in front of them like some sort of general waiting in some pre-arranged battlefield._ _ _ _ _ _

______The men who had catcalled her plus a few others have also formed a barricade behind their bikes. They’ve opted to form an inverted wedge, and they’re clearly outnumbered._ _ _ _ _ _

______“We want _our_ bike and our money.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“No one knows what you’re talking about, _asshole._ ”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Shit.” She hears Deke mutter under his breath and Melinda hauls him back inside, remembering that the bar has a back door._ _ _ _ _ _

______Unfortunately, it turns out that when Mousy ran from the fight, it was to call for back-up. There are now four more guys in the bar, helping Redhead, Large Guy and Thin Wrists back to their feet._ _ _ _ _ _

______“That’s her!” Mousy shouts when he catches sight of them._ _ _ _ _ _

______She immediately backs out, with Deke quickly moving alongside her. He seems content with being dragged in whichever direction she wants to go, but she also knows that this man’s survival instinct will get the better of him._ _ _ _ _ _

______He will not think twice about saving his ass when the opportunity presents itself._ _ _ _ _ _

______“So, um, is Simmons here?” Deke asks. She can hear his uncertainty loud and clear, “Daisy?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______She doesn’t pay attention to him as they walk head-on towards the crowd of bikers, her eyes searching for any sign of cloaked jets. Except for the occasional burst of low static, her comms have gone silent ever since she and Deke tried to leave the bar._ _ _ _ _ _

______“That’s him!” one man says._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Hand over the thief, lady.” Another demands._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Who you calling thief, jackass?” One of the catcallers replies._ _ _ _ _ _

______Deke looks at her imploringly, “Look, I get that you’re a one-woman army, but can you maybe not fight them… while I’m here?” he whispers._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Let go of Shaw, or we blow your head off.” A gruff voice from behind them say, followed by a distinct loading of a shotgun._ _ _ _ _ _

______Melinda almost sighs in annoyance._ _ _ _ _ _

______Another gust of hot air courses across the desert, bringing dust and the grit to their faces. As Deke shields his eyes from the sand, she notices something odd._ _ _ _ _ _

______Behind the rival gang’s motorcycle barricade, something large is blocking the wind’s movement. Nobody seems to notice it yet, but if she listens intently, she can hear the soft sound of metal clanging, as though the wind is hitting something solid._ _ _ _ _ _

______Like maybe a truck._ _ _ _ _ _

______In her ear, her comms gives off a searing sound of static._ _ _ _ _ _

_______Trouble._ _ _ _ _ _ _

______That’s what Keller was trying to tell her._ _ _ _ _ _

_______We got trouble._ _ _ _ _ _ _

______What an understatement._ _ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _

\- - - - -

“I won that chopper fair and square, Frankie!”

The rival gang – they call themselves Reapers but the emblem on their jackets is a spider (seriously, what is _up_ with the biker gang names in Nevada) – brought twenty-five of its members along. They outnumber the Hammerheads, who currently has sixteen members, Deke Shaw not included.

Then there’s the cloaked truck with none of its four passengers in sight.

All in all, a total of 45 hostiles with an array of weapons ranging from melee to shotguns to semi-automatics to a deadly version of the ICER, and eight of the hostiles are right behind them

It’s barely eleven in the morning.

“What’s the plan?” Deke asks as he stares at the crowd in front of them. 

A retrieval op wouldn’t necessarily have more than two extraction plans but for this specific retrieval, she made sure there were five. It even included a strategy in case of a massive showdown between the gangs, but no matter how many they planned, it will all go to waste when there’s lack of coordination between her and the team.

Melinda allows him to hear her frustrated huff.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Shut up.”

She keeps Deke close to her, tightening her hold on his elbow, although she can sense that he’s trying to get behind her.

(she wonders when Deke will realize that the people who want to hurt him are the ones behind them)

Heavy footsteps walk towards their position and her muscles begin to tense. It’s one of those instances where she needs a gun, and she knows it’ll be easy to take one (or two) from them.

The collateral damage, however…

“We’ll take it from here, lady.” Redhead – Frankie – tells her, just as Large Guy picks Deke up by his shoulders and they move forward to the crowd, accompanied by Thin Wrists, Mousy, and two other guys.

The other two are both by her side, pointing their guns at her.

“Gonna need to put those hands up, or I swear to god.” One of them says (she’ll call him Rotted because those teeth are _disgusting _).__

__Rotted is holding a pistol that carries 15 rounds; the other guy, the one she’s calling Baldy, is holding a combat shotgun. There’s nothing to indicate that they actually know how to shoot, or if they know what to do _after_ they shoot their target. In her experience, majority of these people brandish their weapons around to look intimidating._ _

__She begrudgingly raises both her hands up to the level of her shoulders._ _

__“I gave this boy here the bike and he took it from you. And you know why, Paco?” Frankie says, his voice getting increasingly louder, “Because. You. Cheated!”_ _

__There’s another round of static in her ear._ _

__She wonders what that impostor did to block their comms, although if she can hazard a guess, whatever’s blocking the signal is also making them invisible to the team. And if she can neither be contacted nor physically seen by the second-in-command – in this case, Keller – the field safety protocol will be triggered. A slow approach towards her last position will be sanctioned, and Elena won’t be allowed to investigate alone._ _

__Even if the field commander’s life is on the line._ _

__“You calling me a cheat, thief?”_ _

__“Well, you don’t see me lying.”_ _

__That… thing with Coulson’s face also seems to think like him which means he’ll wait until the tension is high enough before he steps in. No one wants to die for something as stupid as a stolen motorcycle, even if they all seem to be prepared for a shootout._ _

__Her eyes dart around, looking at the expression on everyone’s face._ _

___No one_ wants to die for a motorcycle._ _

__(unless the motorcycle is hiding cocaine, then _maybe_ someone would want to die for it. But as it is, this argument is a pissing contest)_ _

__“Give the bike and the money back, Frankie, or—”_ _

__“—or what, Paco?”_ _

__“Or I’ll get them back myself.”_ _

__Paco looks more like someone who’d rather tend the small garden in his house than lead a biker gang. In fact, Melinda thinks he seems angrier at the fact that he’s here, in front of them, demanding to get something he feels he had won fairly._ _

__But then again, she doesn’t really care about the bike, the money or who’s right; she cares about safely getting Deke out of here before things get ugly._ _

__(Deke can instigate close-quarter combat and escape from it unscathed. Drop him off at one end of the Lighthouse with a horde of enemies before him and he’ll be able to find a way out of it. She’s seen Deke fight and run away but it’s all within an enclosed space._ _

__There’s nothing enclosed in a desert)_ _

__“I don’t care about the bike, Frankie.” She hears Deke say, trying to defuse the situation. “I can get a different one.”_ _

__“That’s not the point, Shaw.”_ _

__“Yes, but I don’t think this is a battle to die on, you know?”_ _

__She feels the hostility creeping up. The men at the other side holding their weapons a little too tightly and a glance at the men on either of her side tell her that they’re waiting for that dreaded go-signal._ _

__And then…_ _

__“You should listen to him, Frankie.”_ _

__There he is._ _

__“Coulson?!” The excitement in Deke’s voice makes her heart ache._ _

___Deke doesn’t know._ _ _

__(for a split second, she wished this is her Phil making a dramatic entrance to distract forty-one gang members while she moves to get Deke out of here)_ _

__Anger starts to thrum in her veins as she blinks back the tears threatening to form in her eyes._ _

__“They found a cure for you? That’s so great. I’m so _happy_ to see you. May! May, it’s—”_ _

__Deke turns to look at her and the expression on her face must have said it all because his enthusiasm quickly dissipates, and he looks back at the impostor._ _

__“Oh.”_ _

__“I’m amazed you caught on to that pretty quick.”_ _

__Her view is partially obstructed by the men in front of her, but she can see that a group of Reapers have shifted targets and now have their weapons aimed at the pretender, who looks… bored._ _

__“And who in fuck’s name are you?” Paco demands._ _

__Her eyes scan her surroundings once again. If the impostor strategizes like Coulson, there’ll be members of his team flanking the Hammerheads. There’ll be one on either side, the group’s muscle and the wildcard. The runner – the teammate who’s most likely to run away in a fight – will be nearer their truck, guarding his back._ _

__“Hand over that man to me and nobody gets hurt.” He coolly says to Frankie, ignoring Paco’s question altogether._ _

__“Are you a cop?” Frankie barks._ _

__If the impostor wants Deke, then it’s not going to be in his best interest to further escalate the situation._ _

__Which means escalating the situation is the best strategy for her._ _

__(It’s one of her go-to exit plan when the proverbial shit hits the fan, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. It’s reckless, it’s crude, but the ensuing chaos is a perfect cover for an escape as long as she wasn’t the sole focus of everyone’s attention. She’s been through far worse circumstances and she’s survived with minimal injuries._ _

__Deke, on the other hand…)_ _

__“Frankie, my man. _What_ is your obsession with cops?”_ _

__“Fuckin’ shut it, Shaw.”_ _

__(Deke can get himself killed even without her making the situation worse. Which is actually… worst)_ _

__“Hand him over.”_ _

__“Or what?” Frankie challenges, in a tone she now recognizes as bland macho posturing, “You’ll kill everyone?”_ _

__“Well, the plan was just to erase him from existence but killing everyone sounds fun.”_ _

__She rarely heard Coulson use a tone dripping with excessive arrogance and condescension. When he did use it though, he’d be in a particularly foul, taunting mood and working on the knowledge that he has the upper hand._ _

__“You hired this guy to intimidate me, Paco? To intimidate the Hammerheads?” Frankie shouts and scoffs at the interloper, “Well guess what, fuckhead? You look like an egg and the crazy bitch behind me can beat you.”_ _

__“I’m not going to ask again.”_ _

__She lets out a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to take down Rotted and Baldy when her hair suddenly flips across her face and pockets of sand flick upwards, creating flurries of dust that sting her eyes._ _

__The wind picks up and swirls around and there’s dust _everywhere.__ _

__Then she hears it._ _

__It starts out as a rustle, a faint sound usually heard in a much greener area, which starts to build up, getting louder by the second._ _

__“Do you hear that?” Deke asks._ _

__“Shut up, Shaw.”_ _

__Melinda looks up and her skin prickles. A thick horde of black birds circle above them like vultures. Their numbers seem to be enough to cover the sky but there’s no looming shadow accompanying them_ _

__She’s seen the weird, the strange, and the horrifying and she had taken them all in stride, but the sight of the birds make her stomach churn. And when she looks around, she realizes that no one else has noticed that there are things flying above their heads._ _

__Except for one._ _

__The impostor is looking up and the lazy pomposity has disappeared from his face, replaced by worry._ _

__As he looks back at Deke, the worry on his face twists into determination._ _

__She knows what’s going to happen next and if she doesn’t move _now_ , someone’s going to end up dead._ _

__“I thi—”_ _

__Melinda swiftly disarms Rotted and Baldy and knocks them out before pushing Frankie to the side and kicking Large Guy in the knee. As she pulls Deke backwards, three shots ring out and she feels something whizzing by her head, missing her ear by an inch._ _

__“What the _fuck_?” she hears Deke say in disbelief._ _

__“Move.” She hisses and drags him up to his feet— her bike is just several feet away and if they’re _really_ quick about it, she can get them out of here in less than two minutes. She pulls Deke towards _The Whale_ while chaos erupts behind them as someone returns fire. _ _

__She grabs the remote-controlled key from her jacket pocket and presses the emergency button. Her motorcycle roars to life, automatically backing up from where it’s parked and positions itself for a fast getaway._ _

__The flutter of the wings gets louder, like rain pounding on pavement._ _

__Ice-cold air blasts from above and she can’t help but look up._ _

__A large black blur is barreling down the shack._ _

__“Get dow—”_ _

__

____

\- - - - -

She’s lying face down on the scorching sand when she comes to, and she quickly becomes aware of the ringing in her ears, an annoying buzz that seems to pierce through her brain.

(there was a flash of green before something rammed the breath out of her lungs and knocked her out.

That flash of green is still imprinted at the back of her eyes)

Intense heat surrounds her, and Melinda can’t help but wince as she rolls on her back. She squeezes her eyes shut as her ribs begin to protest, and a thudding pain starts at the side of her head. Acrid smoke burns her throat as she takes a deep breath, coughing as she breathes out.

Wood burns around her; she hears the distinct sound of glass breaking from pressure, followed by a roar of flames.

But despite the ringing in her ears, she can hear someone shouting her name.

She quickly swallows back the wave of nausea that’s starting to settle at the pit of her stomach and blinks back the pain before looking around.

In the distance, she sees Deke on the ground with a terrified expression on his face, seemingly frozen on the spot as he stares at a tall, hooded figure ominously looking down at him.

Adrenaline surges through her veins as she stands up.

Her legs shake a little as she finds her footing and her eyes water as the smoke rises to her face. She feels her vision spin as she scans her surroundings. 

Huge chunks of wood and shards of glass are scattered everywhere; dense, gray smoke spew out from the rubble that she’s sure are the obliterated remains of _The Whale_. Bodies of all the gang members lay on the ground. She tells herself that they’re unconscious – the blast didn’t kill her but it was strong enough to completely destroy the shack – but she knows otherwise.

The birds are gone; so is the impostor.

Melinda knows all of these things are related, but as of this moment, she’s more concerned with looking for a weapon and trying to convince herself that the situation is salvageable.

(it _needs_ to be salvageable because anything less than that and Simmons comes home to news that her grandson is dead)

She sees a pistol a few feet away from her. Something tells her that guns won’t work on the hooded figure, but she makes her way to retrieve it.

Her foot hits something on the ground, and it was hard enough that it registers pain on her toes. A scowl appears on her face as she looks down and finds the harpoon by her feet, still inside its case.

For a split second, she stares at it— ancient and blackened with age, but still sharp. The glass case is miraculously intact.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.” She mutters but grabs it anyway before taking the gun.

Deke screams.

From where she’s standing, she can see the hooded figure grabbing Deke by the neck and lifts him from the ground with one hand. Melinda moves as fast as her aching body would allow, with just the bare bones of a plan, a harpoon in one hand and a pistol in the other.

(The plan is to distract that thing long enough for Deke to run before she makes a run for it herself)

When she gets close enough, she raises the gun and aims for the hooded figure’s head.

It was supposed to be a distraction, but the hooded figure doesn’t move. Neither does it let go of Deke.

_Well, shit._

Melinda shoots him again, opting for another body part.

They don’t budge.

She shoots again.

And again.

The figure drops Deke before turning to look at her, and she sees a silver face and black eyes. Deke is on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. 

Melinda doesn’t blink and shoots the hooded figure in the head. Again.

They walk towards her position, slowly; threateningly. The robe they’re wearing reaches their ankles, covering what she thinks is an armor.

With every step the figure makes, she shoots.

“Those things don’t work on me.” They say when she fires the last bullet and the pistol clicks. Their voice is muffled but it sounds… familiar. 

_He_ sounds familiar. 

“But you already know that.”

Now that he’s closer, she can see that he’s actually wearing an ornate silver mask that covers everything except for his eyes.

“Do you really think you can distract me?” the figure asks, tilting his head to the side. “You’ve done this so many times before, it’s getting… well, let’s just say, you’re starting to _bore_ me.” 

She stoically stares at him.

“You shoot me, I pay attention to you.” He doesn’t take a step closer to her. Instead, he takes off the hood from his head and there’s a soft hiss as his mask disappears.

Her skin crawls when she sees his face.

Melinda thinks she’s hit the limit for evil doppelgangers within the last seventy-two hours.

“Someone tries to do something stupid.” He continues. His voice rings clearly now, and condescension reeks in his tone, “Then, I kill you.”

Grant Ward tried to kill her before. He tried at least thrice – all unsuccessful – before Coulson finally killed him.

(then he came back to life with superpowers and then tried to kill them again but that wasn’t _really_ him)

“You?” She says and it comes out as a scoff, “Kill _me_?”

“That’s what you always say yet somehow, you always end up dead.”

She doesn’t know where he came from; if he’s an impostor, just like the other Coulson, but the way he tells his little story feels like he believes it; that he’s truly killed her before, over and over and he’s going to do it again.

She tightens her hold on the harpoon as she casts a quick glance at Deke, who’s now trying to crawl away as discreetly as he could.

“And I think I know who’s going to _try_ doing something stupid today.”

He slowly raises a hand and there’s a shift in the air.

The bodies of the Sharks and Reapers start to convulse violently on the ground. She hears something snap followed by a disgusting squelch and almost immediately, they stop moving.

Then they all simultaneously sits up. Like puppets, they prop their hand behind them and rises.

She recoils when she sees their faces— grey, lifeless. Their eyes are lily white and blood drips from their mouth, from their ears.

They start to walk, marching with purpose like soldiers on a mission. A low hum emits from them, a garbled murmur that only ghosts would understand.

And they’re walking towards Deke.

“Guys, look I’m sorry I took the bike and the money, I will _never_ do it again.” She hears Deke say.

She finds the impostor Ward looking at her.

Melinda shrugs. 

“He’s not that important.”

He smiles and it’s all teeth and menace, “That’s new.”

There’s a streak of green light and he flicks a hand towards her. Before she can react, she feels something forcefully throwing her back; she drops the harpoon and her left hand scrapes on wood and glass as she lands on the rubble.

Melinda instinctively rolls to the side and scrambles up to her feet, picking up her weapon before blocking a kick she sees coming from the corner of her eye.

“It’s the same training in every universe.”

The harpoon is shorter than a bō staff but it has a rope attached to a sharp iron tip, and she can take advantage of that. Melinda forgets about the thudding in her head and her aching ribs as she digs her heels on the ground and holds her weapon tightly to her side, clutching it in her right hand while shielding her body with her left arm.

“The same fighting stance.” He mockingly says while watching her like a predator stalking his prey.

Electricity surges in her fingertips as she lunges, thrusting the harpoon with both hands. The impostor Ward sidesteps the first blow, and easily dodges when she immediately follows up with a swing of the weapon.

“Predictable.”

Melinda takes a quick glance towards Deke’s direction and sees him surrounded by… zombie bikers. Coulson’s evil doppelgänger and Ward’s equally evil twin are here because of Deke and she wants to get to the bottom of this without Deke and herself dying.

At this point, it’s a tall order.

They circle around each other. Her heart is beating wildly against her chest as she tries to think of a strategy. At the back of her mind, it would probably be wiser if she waits for backup but the static is gone in her comms and the worst case is that Elena and the rest of Team Bravo and Team Charlie has turned into a horde of zombies too.

(Zombies. They’ve handled zombies before… sort of.)

“I’m going to enjoy destroying this universe.” He smugly grins and there’s nothing in his eyes except malice, “Another universe the Cavalry can’t protect.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Do they call you the Cavalry here too? I swear—”

Melinda lunges again but instead of a frontal attack, she changes direction and swiftly rolls to the side, positioning her attack from a different angle.

He manages to sidestep the first blow, but barely evades the second one and Melinda whirls around, using her momentum to thrust the harpoon towards his chest.

The impostor Ward blocks it, but the sharp lily iron cleanly slices through his armor like it’s made of paper and buries itself in his arm.

For a split second, his smug smile turns to shock.

Something hits her squarely on the chest and she hurtles backwards. Before she could gather her senses, she gets violently pulled up.

Strong hands wrap around her neck.

“It’s fun seeing you again.” He hisses, “But I’m _bored_.”

Her feet are dangling underneath her as she tries to pry off his fingers from her throat. Melinda reaches for his wounded arm, but she feels her body being lifted higher, putting more pressure on her jaw. Fear snakes up her spine as her air slowly gets cut off.

“I’ll make sure to tell your husband and your _beautiful_ daughter how valiantly you fought.”

Black spots dance around the edges of her eyes as she struggles to breathe.

And then,

darkness.


	2. A Magical Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge has May and Deke. May discovers that someone is not who they seem to be.

The white sand glitters underneath the glare of the morning sun; the sky, cloudless, as blue as the ocean underneath it. Warm breeze kisses her cheeks as she shakily breathes in the salty air.

He’s gone.

( _his last few days were spent sleeping, too weak to open his eyes for longer than an hour or two. And she spent those days beside him, their fingers entwined, reading the remaining chapters of_ Ulysses _out loud._

_It hurt for him to speak. His breathing sounds like a cross between a wheeze and a gurgle and she knows he’s fighting to stay._

_Melinda tenderly touches his face, finally finding the courage to say something he’d wanted to hear ever since his condition worsened._

_“I’m going to be fine, Phil.” She says, gently running her thumb across his cheek and musters a smile for him, “_ We’re _going to be fine.”_

_“Promise?” his voice rasps._

_She blinks back the tears stinging her eyes and takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily as she struggles to get her words out._

_“I promise.” She answers and his shoulders visibly ease, “You should rest.”_

_A ghost of a smile appears on his face and his eyes flutter to a close._

That was the last time he woke up.)

Her eyes squint behind her sunglasses.

The sky’s too god _damn_ bright. 

“May?”

Melinda looks behind her and sees Daisy a few feet away. And behind Daisy, she sees that the door to their cottage is now closed and the agents who arrived to take Coulson’s body are nowhere in sight.

“Do you….” the younger woman trails off and Melinda motions for her to stand next to her

They watch the waves race to the shore, going as far as it can on the sand before being pulled back to the ocean. Somewhere above them, the birds chitter.

“It’s so beautiful here.” Daisy says.

A lump forms in her throat when she remembers those were Phil’s first words when they arrived, “He loved it.” 

Daisy snorts “He’d love any place as long as you’re there with him.”

A smile tugs at her lips, “Afterlife’s gonna suck without me, then.”

Choked laughter escapes Daisy’s lips and when Melinda glances at her, she sees grief and worry swirling on her face.

She takes off her sunglasses, exposing her red-rimmed eyes, “I’m not going anywhere soon.” She says with gentle reassurance, “I… I promised him.”

Daisy tearily looks at her, studying her face before finally nodding her head.

Melinda notices the dark circles under the younger woman’s eyes and the way her cheeks seem hollower compared to the last time they saw each other. She knows it’s from stress and anxiety and if Coulson were here, Daisy would already have a hug and a pep talk.

But Coulson isn’t here anymore.

Melinda puts an arm around Daisy and holds her. She hears a barely stifled sob and Melinda shifts, embracing the younger woman as tightly as she could.

Daisy’s shoulders begin to shake.

“He loved you very much.” Melinda murmurs. “And he will be proud of whatever you’ll accomplish, whether it’s with SHIELD or outside of it. As I will be.”

She cries harder against her shoulder and for a split second, Melinda thinks that she did more harm than good.

“It’s not fair.” Daisy says in between sobs.

Melinda could only make a sound in agreement.

Daisy pulls away. “Are you sure you don’t want to be alone right now?” her voice is thick with grief, “Because I could—”

She wipes away the tears from the younger woman’s face, “I’m sure.”

As Daisy stays in her embrace, Melinda watches the sight before her. The weather hadn’t been cooperative the past few days – all grey and rain – but today, the sun shines and the water glistens. 

It’s only apt, she thinks, that the place that captivated Phil at first sight would somehow reflect his condition. Now that he’s gone, it looks the way it was when they first arrived.

_Gone._

Her heart starts to ache. She tightens her hold on Daisy and presses a kiss on the side of her head.

He said he’ll always be with her; that they’re going to see each other again. If it had been anyone else, it all sound like empty platitudes, but with Phil, she knows that they were promises.

She knows it’s going be difficult, but she’s also made promises of her own.

And she intends to keep all of them.

* * *

She wakes up with a start, gasping for breath just as pain nastily shoots up in her left arm.

Melinda suppresses a groan.

“Oh, oh, thank god.”

Her eyes flutter, trying to adjust to the yellow lights and tries to piece together the incidents that happened before waking up: an argument about a stolen motorcycle, getting caught in the middle of a standoff between two gangs, an explosion, an eviler doppelgänger, Deke—

“I thought you’re dead.”

—is duct-taped to the wall.

Her brain feels foggy, but she knows this isn’t a hallucination (probably). But she does entertain the idea that she’s somehow underestimating the injury that’s causing the pain in her arm. 

The overjoyed expression on his face looks exactly the way it did when he saw her in the _Whale_ , as though they haven’t seen each other in years.

Melinda briefly closes her eyes and opens them again. 

He’s _still_ duct-taped to the wall.

“I woke up like this.” he says, as if that explains everything.

She moves to stand but quickly finds out that she’s stuck in her seat with a shiny black cloth wrapped around her torso. Her hands rest on her lap, her wrists bound together by a thick metal shackle that looks more like Daisy’s gauntlets than handcuffs. She tries to pull them apart but the metal, although seemingly weightless, only digs into her skin.

“Not going to state the obvious but… this is bad, right?”

“You’re taped to a wall.” She dryly answers.

“ _Still_ not the worst place I’ve found myself in.”

The first three decades of her life was not in a dystopic Earth run by sadistic blue aliens, so Melinda’s going to believe him when he implies that he’s been in worst situations. Besides, she’s not in the mood to discuss what kind of metric they’re using when he says _worst_.

“This feels nice, actually. Like a cocoon.”

She rolls her eyes. 

(more like a hapless insect stuck in a spider’s web, she thinks)

The room is roughly the same size as the single quarters in the Lighthouse. Every few minutes, the lights sway when the floor and the walls shake. 

Her gut tells her they’re inside a moving vehicle.

“So, uh, what happened to Coulson?”

Melinda remembers how Deke’s face fell when he saw her reaction to the impostor. She assumed he knew the implications of her reaction; maybe it was the wrong assumption. 

“That wasn’t Coulson.” She hisses. She knows who’s holding them captive, and when she gets out of her restraints, she’s going to—

“—I know, I know.” He quickly backtracks. “I meant _our_ Coulson. _Your_ Coulson.”

She sharply draws a breath and her anger quickly dissipates as Phil’s face flashes in her mind. Phil, with his bright blue eyes and his soft smile, gazing at her with such intense affection it makes her blush.

Melinda turns away as she feels a lump form in her throat and her chest tightens.

(because it’s only in Tahiti that she realized he had always looked at her like that) 

She doesn’t speak, her silence magnified by the occasional creaking of the walls and the shaking of the floors. 

Deke – to his credit – understood what it meant.

“I’m sorry.”

She looks at him with mild surprise and he offers her a consoling smile that reminds her of Simmons. It suddenly occurs to her that he still doesn’t know Fitz is dead, but this might be a bad time to tell him about it.

“Well, at least it’s not Coulson trying to erase me from existence, right?” He says in relief, and immediately, the somber mood is replaced by something more… Deke-ish.

“How’d you find me, anyway?”

She looks around for anything helpful. The room is bare, save for the lights on the ceiling, and a table with some knickknacks scattered on top by the left corner. She cranes her neck— the door’s behind her.

“SHIELD’s been monitoring you.” She answers, looking back at him.

“That’s… comforting… I think?”

“Anomalies were following you around.”

“Well, that’s… are you talking about the birds?”

She remembers the footage of the dinosaur in Omaha, which Agent Khan had easily identified as a velociraptor, thanks to too many viewings of _Jurassic Park_.

“Among other things.”

Melinda wriggles in her seat. The restraints are tightly wrapped around her budges a little, and she pulls away from the chair, trying to loosen it.

Pain spikes up her left arm again.

“What are you doing?”

She glares at Deke, finding no need to explain, and continues what she’s doing.

“Right, right.” He nods his head as if he’s just remembering their current situation, and looks at her expectedly, “What’s the plan?”

She looks back at him incredulously, wondering if all the street-smart Deke possessed were left in the future.

“Look, I’m just asking, because I heard one of them say they have to go back to check your arm.” 

“And you’re only telling me this now?” she says in disbelief.

“I forgot, okay? What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing.” She says through gritted teeth. Her effort to escape is making the pain in her arm throb and spread to her shoulder. But if Deke heard them right, they’ll be back. She needs to be free from the chair by that time.

(she can take all of them down – _all_ of them – with her hands tied)

“You know, Dreama said…. because birds symbolize freedom and new…. the birds followed us everywhere…. be one with nature…. spread spirituality…. along the interstate highways.”

Melinda doesn’t pay attention to Deke, but her obvious disinterest in making conversation doesn’t faze him. He continues, treating this as some sort of New Age lecture, but sounding like a wannabe guru hopped up on weed instead.

(she wonders how many rolls of duct tape were wasted to plaster him on the wall, wishing that they taped one over his mouth too)

“Plus, did you know that…. and, and interstate highways are modern day ley lines…. and when someone…. a renewal of spirit…. by the way, Earth is somehow very green but also brown…. anyhow, Dreama was _really into_ renewing the land and finding your….”

If she remembers it correctly, Dreama and the rest of her group were arrested for public indecency near Sioux City. They also found drugs in their van. Deke had somehow escaped the arrests and disappeared for a few days. The next set of reports have him in a truck stop out of Iowa.

“…now, Big John thinks that ley lines and spiritual journeys are a bunch of bullcrap—”

“—they are.” Melinda interjects, not quite helping herself from interrupting.

“Yes, but you and Big John are _practical_ people. Maybe if you present this to another person, they wouldn’t think it’s cra— oh my god, you’re free.”

The cloth wrapped around her had gotten loose enough that she can carefully slide down the chair.

She lands on the floor with a quiet but undignified thud.

The tightness of the cloth had masked the ache on her back and shoulders, but Melinda quickly gets up to her feet. She grabs the cloth, which fell on the seat, and heads to the worktable to inspect the items scattered on top of it.

“Uh, May? A little help here?”

Melinda ignores him. After a few seconds, she picks the heaviest object – a bronze round object with buttons in the middle – and wraps the cloth around it as tightly as her bound wrists could before heading towards the door.

“May?” Deke squeaks.

“No.”

Even when she was standing in the left corner of the room, it’s obvious that the door doesn’t have any handles or knobs. She assumes it’s an automatic, but there should still be a manual mechanism that could open it. Melinda runs her hands around the entryway, looking for a control panel.

“How… how are you going to fight them off if your hands are tied?”

“I fought you with a metal pole stuck in my thigh.” She mutters loudly.

And she would have won against him, if he hadn’t cheated.

“Right.”

She finally decides to wait it out. If Deke’s right, then someone will have to go back to check on her. Melinda crouches against the wall, making herself as small as possible to avoid detection at the last minute. She grips the cloth tightly, knowing that with her hands bound, she only has a small window of opportunity to knock out whoever comes in.

“What if—”

She flashes a warning glance at Deke, who immediately keeps quiet.

After what seems like forever, the door slides open.

“Sarge knows something we don’t and when I find out…” a voice rings out.

“Then what, Pax? Kill him?” a woman’s voice replies.

“No! Snow, what the he— wait a minute.” A skinny guy – Pax, probably – warily walks forward as the woman follows him. They’re two of the interlopers, members of the impostor’s team.

(she doesn’t feel vindicated that her assumption was correct; it only reignited her anger that had almost petered out)

Neither notice her by the side of the doorway 

“Hi!” Deke chirps, using himself as a distraction.

“Where’s the—”

Melinda pounces, hitting Pax squarely on the side of his head. She then heaves her improvised weapon and hits the woman on the face. And just like their previous encounter, they both fall on the floor like a sack of potatoes.

That’s two down.

“Yes!” Deke shouts victoriously.

She waits for a beat before rushing out with her weapon.

“Great, I’ll just stay here and wa—”

The door closes with a swoosh, a sound that seems more appropriate in an efficient, high-tech facility rather than a decrepit container truck.

Except… it looks like she’s not inside a decrepit container truck.

She blinks in confusion.

There’s a hallway— a long hallway with gray brick walls, concrete floors and buzzing fluorescent lights. 

Melinda glances behind her. There’s an outline of a door but finds that the doorway and the walls are smooth with no visible means to open it. She has no way of going back inside. While her gut still says they’re inside the impostor’s truck, uncertainty starts to claw within her as she stares at what seems to be a never-ending corridor.

She cautiously walks onward, noiselessly, without loosening her hold on her makeshift weapon.

Her whole body is aching. She can pinpoint which parts got the full brunt of the (eviler) superpowered Ward’s attacks. And thinking about how the entire thing went down, she’s surprised it doesn’t hurt as much as it should have, much less able to walk.

(except for her arm. Her arm hurts like _hell_ )

Sixty-four steps later, she reaches a dead end. 

However, on one side of the wall, there’s a raised pad as big as a tablet. She touches it gingerly before pressing down.

Nothing happens. 

Melinda frowns and takes a step back before pushing the pad again. 

This time it turns green and, with a hiss, the wall slowly slides to the left.

Something dark covers the exit but she moves towards it, anyway. As she uses her good shoulder to push through them, she realizes they’re curtains. Thick, heavy curtains. Lots of them. She can barely see anything, but she can feel the floor underneath her changing— it’s getting rougher, sharper.

When she pushes through the last curtain, yellow lights flood the room and she almost stumbles on the large boxes haphazardly scattered on the floor.

Her elbows are starting to complain from the angle it’s being forced into by the handcuffs. Her left arm is also starting to ache again, but she chooses to ignore all of it, relying on her pulsing rage and the continuous blast of adrenaline to keep it at bay.

(she tells herself over and over that she’s been through worst)

She ventures outwards. The shelves are positioned like a maze, but she recognizes the area being the same one from a few days ago.

“Impressive, considering you’re still tied up.”

Melinda whirls and sees the impostor standing a few feet away, casually leaning next to a taller shelf, holding a timer in one hand and a gun in the other.

She stares at him impassively. 

There’s still another member of his team somewhere.

“He’s driving.” The impostor says, as though he can read her mind, “Everyone accounted for?” he asks with a mocking tone and a tilt of the head.

It’s recognizable behavior, a combination of tone and action that had been directed at her only _once_.

She shores up her calm but lets her anger fester as she grips her improvised weapon as tightly as she could. He’s far enough that he’ll be able to duck if she throws the weapon at him; but he’s near enough that she can catch him off-guard— if she moves fast enough.

“What do you want?” she growls, finally deciding on a point of attack.

“You.”

He shoots.

\- - - - -

“You know what I thought the first time I saw you?”

His breathing is still labored, and Melinda adjusts the oxygen tank regulator before looking at him with a raised brow, “I was short?” she asks and gently swats his hand away from the plastic tubes in his nose.

Phil inhales deeply, “No, I thought…” he pauses and lets out a sigh, “…you were the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t meet a lot of women in Wisconsin.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s cheesy—”

“—Wisconsin _is_ cheese country.” 

He chuckles, “But, despite what’s got to be the worst pick-up line ever—”

“— _definitely_ one of the worst—”

“—I have to be honest with you: you took my breath away… and then you kicked my ass in the mat.”

“Took your breath away the second time that day, huh?”

“I think you took me down two more times after that.”

The first time they met was in a 101 class— self-defense. They were all required to pair up and like the two kids being picked last for kickball, they ended up as each other’s partners. She knew why no one wanted to pick her; everyone knew she’d kick their ass. It doesn’t matter if they’re probably low-key racists, expecting her to know kung-fu (or whatever martial art they assumed she knew); nobody wanted to be embarrassed on their first day.

Except for him.

She pinned him on the mat three times. And he stood up every time with a good-natured smile.

( _“I came here to learn.” He comically winces as he pulls himself up, “Getting my ass kicked tells me I should probably learn how to land.” He adds and flashes a goofy smile._

_Her heart skips a beat._

_What a nerd._ )

She sits at the edge of the bed, by his outstretched legs. Outside, the sky is cloudy, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. The bad days outnumber the good now.

Phil reaches for her. “Promise me something.” He says. His hand is cold.

“What is it?”

“I know that…” he stops speaking and studies her face, “I know you’ll want to be alone when I’m gone. You’ll retreat somewhere, isolate yourself… But…”

Phil squeezes her hand, “I want you to promise me that you’ll remember I’m not the only one who loves you.”

She chews on her lower lip, but she squeezes his hand back in response.

They sit together in companionable silence, punctuated by his breathing. She pushes away thoughts of the near future and keeps herself focused on _right now_. 

“Feed FitzSimmons’ kid with chocolates and set them loose in the lab for me, will you?” he says all of the sudden.

The sheer imagery Fitz and Simmons panicking while their daughter runs around in a sugar rush makes her laugh despite her somber mood.

“And you should teach Daisy’s kids how to fly.” he adds wistfully. 

“You want to give Daisy a heart attack?”

“She won’t. Besides, you’re their grandma.” He grins at the thought, “You can spoil them to your heart’s content.”

Tears well up in her eyes. He said it as if he can see it so clearly as day in his head, so confident she’ll be able to move on when everything will feel so lacking without him.

“I’m sorry… it’s just that…” he trails off and he starts rubbing his thumb on top of her fingers, “I know it’s going to be hard and I know it’s going to take a while but…” 

His voice cracks.

“I’ll always be with you.”

Something breaks in her chest and she looks down to their joined hands as her tears start to fall.

“I don’t… I don’t ever want you to think you’ve lost something in you, even if it’s going to feel like it for some time.” He says and pauses to catch his breath. “My mom used to say that… when you love someone and they move on to a better place, there’s always going to be a part of them that gets left behind. It feels like a hole at first, but it’s just… it’s your heart trying to make the pieces fit.

“We’re going to see each other again. And when we do… tell me everything— Daisy, Fitz, Jemma. The grandkids. SHIELD. Retirement. How you have to save the world again. And again.”

Melinda looks at him and she sees him gazing at her with so much love it’s overwhelming.

(he always looked at her like that.

Ever since they met)

“I love you.” She softly says.

Phil smiles, “I know.” He replies cheekily because he just can’t help it, “I love you too.”

* * *

She’s slowly stirred awake by the sound of a low buzzing… somewhere. It’s the same sound she heard from the lights in that hallway.

She keeps her head down and pretends to be still out of it. The chair she’s on is uncomfortable and her wrists are now bound behind her back. Her head feels like someone stuffed a can full of cotton in between her ears and…

There’s someone in this room with her.

Melinda waits for a beat before lifting her head. 

The Phil Coulson impostor is sitting across her, settled sideways on the chair, with his left elbow on top of the steel table that separates them. His full concentration is on a bulky device in his hands.

He looks unkempt— his outfit, a dark ensemble with holes in his jacket, has white powder stains; a five o’clock shadow covers his jaw and his hair is short, growing from an uneven shave close to his scalp. Bits of shiny gray hair pepper the top of his head and his stubble.

The fuzziness clears from her head as anger begins to pulse in her temple.

He has more gray in him than Phil ever had in Tahiti.

“You keep staring like that, my head’s bound to catch on fire.” He nonchalantly says, his full attention still on his device.

“Fine by me.” She snaps. Her throat feels itchy.

He glances up and there’s a hint of laughter at the corner of his lips.

“I can see why Snow likes you.”

Melinda pulls the restraints behind her. It clatters noisily but doesn’t budge and she’s rewarded with a sharp, stinging sensation in her left arm.

“You _really_ shouldn’t be doing that.”

“What,” She starts in a low tone, “do you want?”

The impostor sets down his device on the table and changes his position in his chair so that he’ll be squarely facing her.

“Me? I want world peace.”

Somehow, his answer reminds her of Coulson it makes her want to weep.

(and then reach out to slam his head on the table)

“You destroyed the last one you’ve been in.”

The amusement disappears on his face, replaced by a pensive expression.

“You know, I’ve been to a lot of worlds. Some good, some garbage.” He muses, “if you know about that, it means you have resources. And I’ve found that the ones with the kind of resources you have tend to be greedy with power. Like the last one.”

“So, you destroyed them.”

“It’s better in the long run.” He says with a careless shrug. There was no threat behind his tone. It was simple, factual. As if it’s the only option available.

“What do you want.” She repeats, darkly this time.

The impostor leans towards her, “We have a common enemy, someone determined to destroy the fabric of time and space.”

Grant Ward’s smug face pops in her head. She merely looks back at him with a blank face, with no intention of revealing what she knows, at least not until she gets more information.

“You’ve met him, threw you around like a rag doll. He calls himself Leviathan and that’s only a fraction of what he can do. Says he’s a god. Almost got me to believe it. Then you,” The Impostor looks at her with an appraising eye, “You made him bleed.”

She remembers how effortless it was for the harpoon’s lily iron to slice through the (eviler) Grant Ward’s armor. Remembers his shocked expression when he realizes she could hurt him. 

“So, you’re asking for help.”

“I’m not asking.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll have to kill the Traveler, erase him from existence. Leviathan’s after him, anyway. If the Traveler’s gone, _maybe_ he’ll leave this universe alone.” He shrugs, “Or maybe not, since you seemed to have pissed him off.”

 _Erase him from existence_. He used that phrase back in the desert, with all the bikers and their guns.

“Traveler?” she asks, playing dumb.

“That annoying guy you’ve been protecting. He’s a time traveler, isn’t he? From the future. _A_ future.”

She clenches her fists behind her.

“You see, Leviathan’s gonna suck his essence dry.” He continues, “Then he crushes Earth, goes off to annihilate twelve more planets in this galaxy and hightailing out of this universe before it collapses. Rinse. Repeat.”

It sounds like she accidentally stepped into a mediocre sci-fi novel.

“You expect me to believe that?”

He smirks.

The DNA test ran by SHIELD’s lab told her this man is – genetically – Phil Coulson. And from afar, he looks like her Phil, with his proud posture and broad, strong shoulders.

But up close, she can see all the ways he isn’t him: his blue eyes are cold, flinty; contempt hangs comfortably on every crevice of his face, and his mouth twists into a contemptuous smile far too easily. 

“You don’t have to believe me. You’ve seen what he can do; I think you’ll agree if I say he needs to be stopped.”

Any version of Grant Ward – be it a Hydra thug, a vessel for a millennia-old Inhuman, or a superpowered, universe-jumping-destroyer-of-worlds – needs to be stopped, and that’s something she knows to be true.

“If I’m going to help you, you’re going to need to answer a few of my questions.” She says, gritting her teeth, “Starting with _who the fuck are you_.”

The impostor looks at his watch before leaning back on the chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. For a while, he’s silent, his gaze piercing through her as he’s though trying to come up with a palatable response.

(or debating whether she needs to be manipulated)

Finally, “I’m nobody. Just a dude with a bad haircut and a cool truck.”

“ _Not_ good enough.”

“Well, _lady_ , what answer did you want to hear?” He asks derisively, “Did you want me to say that I’m… whatshisname Coulson?”

He puts up a hand and an exaggerated frown appears on his face as he shrugs, “Will you help if I tell you I’m… Coulson, who was brought back to life by… the gods to help you… stop Leviathan? Because if that’s how it’s going to be, I could pretend—”

“—shut up.” She says with a harsh breath.

The impostor watches her with a bored expression on his face and an air of icy detachment. Tears prickle her eyes, but she doesn’t look away.

(She remembers telling Coulson that she can never shoot him in the head; that she will _never_ shoot him in the head.

She thinks she can shoot this one for the oopsies.)

“If you thought that was going to work, then you’re definitely not him.” She finally managing to make her voice sound clear and forceful, “I need a name, where you came from.”

“Where I came from, we don’t do names.”

Melinda stares at him and he stares back.

(she wonders what will happen if he doesn’t give in; it’s not like he can force her to fight for him—at least, she doesn’t think he’s capable of doing that. He wouldn’t ask if he did)

He blinks.

“They call me Sarge. Where I came from is irrelevant; it’s not like you can get there anyway.”

It’s not what she wanted and they both know it. Which gives her a little leeway for negotiations.

“If I work with you, and I kill that man, I want you to leave Deke Shaw alone, you take your crew with you and get the hell out of Earth.”

Sarge looks at her, “That’s all?”

She doesn’t repeat herself.

“Deal.” He makes a show of checking his watch again, “That’s settled then.” He says and pushes his chair back, “How’s your arm?”

The faux concern makes her eyes narrow.

He stands up, “You were scanned for internal injuries when we brought you in—”

The room slowly begins to spin.

“What….” she trails off, and her voice suddenly doesn’t sound like her voice, “Why am I…”

“—nothing invasive, just a scan.” He continues, as if he didn’t hear her, “You were pretty banged up.”

Melinda can feel her eyelids growing heavy.

“… injected you with meds before you woke up. You got another dose after your _daring_ escape…”

The lights around her dim. 

“… it works better when you’re knocked out…”

And the last thing she hears is that she’s going be _just_ fine.

\- - - - - -

It was still dark outside when she wakes up.

For a few minutes, she lays still, listening to Phil’s soft snores.

He’s getting weaker. Some days he needs to rest after walking for five steps. Some days, the pain would be too unbearable to even eat. 

(during those days, she’s required to check in with Simmons, and the younger woman could only help with the pain management)

But there were still more good days than bad

Melinda quietly slips out of bed. She picks up Phil’s shirt from the floor and puts it on as she walks to the small kitchen. She grabs the kettle from the shelf and boils a fresh pot of water for her tea and for Phil’s first cup of coffee… if today’s a good day.

Suddenly, there’s a soft patter on the roof, like soft pebbles bouncing on the thatched surface.

Rain. 

The first one since they arrived in Tahiti.

She meticulously prepares her tea before making her way to the large windows in their bedroom.

The skies are gray, and the ocean even more so. The winds aren’t strong, judging from how the trees are swaying; the raindrops are light and refined and from afar, it looks like there’s a mist covering the entire beach.

It’s a melancholic way to start the day. 

As Melinda sips her tea, her thoughts wander towards the future and what it might look like without the one constant presence in her life for the past thirty years.

Maybe it’ll be like that time after Bahrain, when her senses had dulled to a point that everything she ate tasted like sawdust and her brain perceived every touch as excruciating. Or maybe it’ll be like that time when she was in Admin and he got promoted; they’d go for weeks without any contact.

But back then, she knew that _if_ she had called; _if_ she had left him a message, he’d call back. Maybe even drop everything and come running to her. Even then, he used to pop up in her cubicle unannounced, giving her whatever interesting snack he picked up from wherever Strike: Team Delta had a mission.

(the missions were classified but she knew they had one in Pattaya, where Clint broke three bows. She knew that he had instigated a major bus strike in Addis Ababa, and that Natasha had set off the alarms in five different museums in Athens at the same time)

Just like the way she can’t imagine another life where their paths never crossed, she can’t imagine her life moving forward without him in it.

(it had happened before, when he first died. It felt like years were going past her, and she was stuck in a rut without any purpose until Fury called)

Yet, it’s going to be a reality soon. 

A tear drops on her cheek.

“ _Fuck._ ” She mutters as she hastily wipes her face with a hand.

“I’m not dead yet.” She hears him wryly say.

Melinda turns her head towards his voice and sees him awake, propped up against the headrest and holding his prosthetic. The nightlamp’s been switched on. 

“Good morning to you too.” She replies with a sniffle.

Concern is etched on his face and she gives him a watery smile. She walks to their bed, setting down her tea on the side table and curls beside him as he puts on his left hand.

(if he can put on his prosthetic, it usually means it’s a good day)

“Just thinking about who’s going to get your collectibles and memorabilia, considering you refuse to write a will.”

The crease on his brows deepens.

(he knows when she’s lying, the same way she knows when he’s lying)

“Hang on to the trading cards.” Phil finally replies, letting it pass. “They’re worth a fortune. The Cap ones with the autograph, definitely, but the Howling Commando cards are surprisingly worth a _lot_.”

Melinda closes her eyes for a moment and he lightly brushes strands of hair away from her face.

“What if I loan them to a museum in the SHIELD Academy?” she muses as she looks at him.

“SHIELD’s still rebuilding and you’re already thinking about an Academy museum?” he responds with deep amusement.

She’s never been one to look too far into the future but the idea of rebuilding the Academy had been at the back of her mind ever since Daisy casually mentioned it during one of their video chats. 

Melinda shrugs, “I don’t think the Smithsonian will have a SHIELD exhibit anytime soon.”

“The Academy, huh.” He slowly sinks to the bed and turns to face her. Their noses touch, as though what he’s going to say next is a secret best shared before going to bed, said in soft tones and sealed with a kiss. “I’ve always thought I’d end up being a full-time instructor.”

“You wouldn’t last a semester.”

“Because the kids would be terrible?”

She lightly traces the ridge of his brows. Sharing his knowledge had always been his joy, and mentoring brought out the best in him. “You’d get bored.”

“Not if you were part of the faculty too.” He suggests with a grin.

“No.” she exhales in disapproval, “If I’m retiring from the field, it’s going to be spent between a beach and a cabin by the lake.”

 _With you_ , she almost says, catching herself, but it must have shown on her face because he freezes. 

(Phil jokes about his death often, as if it’s going make it easier, but they haven’t started grappling with the fact that he’s going to be _gone_ afterwards. This isn’t retirement— he has weeks left, and they’re making up for lost time. Every night, before they go to sleep, they both say a silent prayer to have another day together.

That the little things – dizzying kisses, evening cuddles, laughing about their Academy days during lazy afternoons while tangled in each other’s limbs – will become memories that she can’t reminisce with him.

That she’ll be with him until his very last breath and while it’s the end for him, it isn’t for her.)

Her face crumbles.

“Mel….”

She wants to say that it’s okay; that she’s going to be okay. But the words get stuck in her throat and her vision blurs.

She leans forward and he pulls her towards him.

After Tahiti, he’ll be gone and there’s nothing from before that can compare to it— even though he wasn’t always by her side, he was always, _always_ a call away.

(when Maria told her that he was killed in action, she called his phone, determined to prove the deputy director wrong. She left a message, asking how he was. 

Weeks after he got resurrected, he called her back)

Time comes to a standstill as she stays in his arms. His heart trembles near her cheek; his right hand soothingly kneads her back.

 _But he’s not gone yet_ , a tiny voice at the back of her mind says.

And that’s the most important thing right now.

Melinda gently tugs away, inhaling noisily as she looks at Phil. His eyes are red-rimmed, and she reaches out to tenderly cup his face.

Phil closes his eyes and sighs before pressing his palm against the back of her hand that’s on his cheek.

“I… I’ve come to terms with my death.” He contritely whispers, “But not with leaving you. I don’t want you to think—”

“Phil.” She interjects softly, stroking his cheek. “I know.” She murmurs.

He looks like he still wants to say something, but instead he inhales deeply and nods his head, angling his head slightly to kiss her fingers.

Outside, the rain steadily beats against the windows.

“Pancakes?” he says, finally.

They’ve always been his go-to comfort food, and god knows she’s eaten enough, but a day where he’s well enough to cook is a day to be celebrated.

She nods and kisses him lightly on the cheek, “Only if you’re cooking.”

* * *

The sound of screeching metal violently shakes her awake. The sound drills through her skull and she sits up quickly, her eyes blinking furiously.

The lights flicker on.

Her heart starts to pound excruciatingly against her chest as she looks around in disorientation. She’s in some sort of living quarters and she’s on a bed— a real bed, with a pillow and a blanket. Her jacket is tossed over a chair by the side of the bed while her boots are on the floor, on top of a shabby carpet. There’s a dresser in one corner; at the opposite side is a small pantry. There’s a small table with a stool underneath, while a weird-looking plant sits by the door.

It’s acceptably furnished, even for SHIELD’s standards

And astonishingly, her wrists are free.

(she’s going to bet that she’s still inside the Impostor’s truck, though)

Melinda rubs her left arm and realizes that it doesn’t ache anymore— in fact, her entire body is pain-free. Even her left leg feels like new.

The door opens.

“Morning!”

Morning?

The only woman in the Impostor’s team – the one called Snow – greets her chirpily as she goes inside, carrying a tray, feet thudding heavily on the floor.

“Breakfast.” she declares and sets down the tray on the table.

For a second, Melinda stays motionless on the bed. She’s tempted to say she isn’t hungry, but her stomach reminds her that her last meal had been at the _Whale_. 

“Sarge ordered me to… persuade you to eat.” The woman adds and shows her the gun by her hip.

In Melinda’s honest assessment, this woman’s coordination is a cross between a newborn foal and a giraffe, but she decides to humor her and slides off the bed to wear her shoes.

“You weren’t very nice to me yesterday.”

The woman’s accent sounds like an odd mix of Kiwi and Irish.

“But it’s fine. You’re an angry lady.”

The tray she brought in is big enough to cover the entire table. It has a banana, a cup of dark liquid, a bottle of water a plastic fork and a plate with… two pieces of soggy pancakes

(she hasn’t eaten one ever since Tahiti and these look like a child made them)

But it’s the water bottle’s label that catches her eye— it’s a brand that can be bought in any convenience store across South America. 

Apprehension settles at the pit of her stomach. They’re traveling too fast for something that’s looks like a truck on the outside. And she knows the truck is real; she’s seen it in action.

She takes the cup of dark liquid and takes a sniff. It smells _bad_.

“It’s coffee.” The woman pipes up, in a helpful tone.

More like toxic sludge, she thinks, and puts it down.

“You’re very lucky.” The woman gushes when she takes the fork, “It’s Sarge’s turn to cook today.” 

(a truck with a kitchen?)

Melinda stabs the pancake, “You going to watch me eat?” she asks, not masking her threatening tone.

The woman scrutinizes her face before shrugging.

“I’ll be back.” She says and retreats. “There’s a bathroom by your right.” She adds before the door closes with a click behind her.

(and a bathroom. This truck has a bathroom.)

Melinda loudly exhales and sits on the chair as she processes her current situation— kidnapped by Phil Coulson’s evil doppelgänger, who is coercing her to kill Grant Ward’s eviler, superpowered doppelgänger who is coming after Deke and who’s probably going to destroy Earth and a few other planets.

This isn’t her worst day as a SHIELD agent, but it’s in the running to becoming her most bizarre.

On the bright side, she’s being fed— or at least, she’s confident that her food wasn’t deliberately laced with poison, considering that the Impostor… Sarge needs her help.

The light, buttery aroma of the pancakes wafts to her nose.

Melinda freezes.

The two pieces of pancakes look mushy and unappealing, but the smell is the same as the one that filled their kitchen in Tahiti almost every other day. It brings her back to bright mornings and rainy afternoons, of hysterical giggles and anguished embraces.

Sarge’s words ring in her head and she clenches her jaw in anger, not knowing if this is some sort of mind game or something else entirely.

She drops the fork and takes the banana and water instead.

She’s going to kill Grant Ward. 

Then she’s going to get to the bottom of this.

\- - - - - -

“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if we never met?”

She’s settled comfortably against him, her back on his chest with his arms wrapped around her. They’re lying in the hammock outside their cottage, watching the stars against the clear night sky.

“I’ll be working for a SHIELD overrun by Hydra while you’ll be making soap and believe in conspiracy theories.”

Phil snorts. “Maybe in an alternate universe made by a killer robot with a crush.”

It might have happened just last year, but everything that occurred between then and now feels like it’s been a lifetime.

“She did get one thing right, though. I definitely would have been a teacher if I didn’t join SHIELD.”

For a moment, she considers his question seriously but finds that she can’t picture it. He’s been so entrenched in her life since they met; imagining a life where their paths never crossed seems impossible.

“Well,” she starts as she watches a passing cloud briefly covering the crescent moon, “I would’ve flunked Intro to SHIELD back in the Academy if we never met.”

During their second month in the Academy, the upperclassmen hosted a “Congratulations, You’re Still Here” party for the freshmen. Phil, after five glasses of apple cider whiskey punch, started talking about a Howling Commando op in Belgium – an operation so obscure that she’s sure it’s the primary reason he got recruited – but it was a long-winded story told by someone half-drunk that at some point, everybody gave up listening to him.

Except for her.

Then, a few weeks later, it got asked in a particularly grueling recitation as a get-out-of-finals pass, which turned into a get-out-of-this-class pass

She feels his chest rumble.

“Oh, man. I’m still annoyed you got yourself exempted and not me.” He says, chuckling, “I could have used that time to train at the gym—could’ve gotten a shot to pin you in the mat.”

This time, she’s the one who snorts. “Even with that extra time, that never would have happened.” She says, “Besides, you loved that class.”

“Yeah, but Agent Flores was terrifying. Loved him, loved that class, but every time I went to the lecture hall, it felt like I was walking blindfolded in a minefield— and what do you mean I never would have pinned you in the mat? I wasn’t a jock, but I was – and still am – a quick learner.” He says, waggling his brows.

Melinda laughs. She shifts her position in his embrace and looks at him. His amusement is all over his face. 

“You were one giant nerd back in the Academy.” She points out playfully, “Never would have happened.”

“Never?”

She solemnly shakes her head.

He leans forward and kisses her forehead, “Is it weird to confess now that I specifically chose to talk about that Howling Commando op – which is still the world’s greatest heist no one knows about – was because I was testing all of you?”

Her eyes narrow.

“I didn’t think I’d find a friend in the Academy. I thought, maybe if there’s at least one person who can stand me after talking that much, I was gonna be okay.” 

Melinda’s gaze softens. Phil never consciously competed for the top spot, and he came in second when they graduated, but she always thought he never had doubts about becoming a SHIELD agent. She never realized how fragile his resolve had been at the start.

“I’m glad I listened to you, then.”

He grins, “Let’s be honest here: you started out as a captive audience.”

She tilts her head and he leans in to kiss her.

(she truly cannot imagine another life where their paths never crossed)

Melinda draws him closer and Phil cups her face as their kiss deepens, his fingers threading through her hair. A soft moan escapes her, and she moves to get to a better position, but immediately stops when the hammock starts wobbling.

She breaks off the kiss with laugh.

“Bed?” Phil asks, caressing her face.

“Yeah.” She presses soft kisses along his jaw, “Let’s go to bed.”

* * *

The woman – who introduced herself as Snowflake – returned afterwards, just as she said. A mildly offended expression appeared on her face when she saw that Melinda didn’t eat the pancakes but said nothing about it.

Then Snowflake brought her here, what the other woman dubs the “white room”. 

( _With a gun in one hand, Snowflake leads her out of the room into another hallway and back into the truck. The woman ignores the clutter on the floor and makes her stop in front of a utility closet._

_She opens the door. “White room’s right through there.” She says, nudging her gun towards the closet._

_“You sure it’s not Narnia?” Melinda asks, her skepticism all over her face._

_Snowflake looks at her blankly, “What’s a Narnia?”_ )

The white room is _not_ white. Not at all. 

The walls and floors are gray and at the center of the room is a long, narrow table made of glass. There’s a scaled-down, three-dimensional hologram of evil Ward on one side of the table; at the other end is the harpoon she used against him. There seems to be an ongoing analysis of the harpoon, going by the holographic numbers floating on the table.

This is the only tech that’s inside this room and it’s far too sophisticated compared to the bulky device she’s seen the Impostor holding.

(yes, she’s inside a seemingly magical truck, but she also wants a _little_ consistency. As it is, everyone’s fashion seems ripped off from a trashy dystopia, the tech they’re using is a throwback to the 90s, the tech they’re hiding seems at least at par with SHIELD’s, while the hidden hallways and the rooms that connect to them scream science-fiction)

Melinda glares at evil Ward’s smug face and flicks off his 3D head with her finger.

The image shimmers from the interference and suddenly one part of the wall darkens. Holographic images of planets in various state of decay with accompanying countdowns are projected onto the wall.

(make that ten years in advance from SHIELD tech)

She assumes this is some sort of strategy room.

Melinda hears the door slam close behind her. She doesn’t turn around; instead, she focuses her attention on the images on the wall, scrutinizing the numbers. She can’t tell what the countdowns are for— probably related to evil Grant Ward.

Familiar footsteps echo in the room. 

She stiffens.

(she forgot what Phil’s footsteps sound like, and it hurts more than she’d admit.)

Sarge stands beside her and she hears a small grunt when he sees what she’s looking at. He extends his right hand in front of him and flicks his wrist upward. The images of the planets disappear, replaced by text.

“Snow said you didn’t eat.” He says and walks towards the table.

Melinda ignores him as she walks closer to the wall. There were a bunch of symbols which could either be from an alien race or from an ancient civilization on Earth, and what appears to be a laundry list of evil Ward’s superpowers: 

_Telekinetic  
Extra durable  
~~Weapon-proof~~  
Telepathic link to shrikes  
Necromancy  
Flight  
Super strength (?)_

Looking at the list, she quickly realizes that she’s out of her depth with the task he wants done. She has _no_ idea how to kill this man.

“What’s your plan?” she asks.

He shrugs, “Corner him, then kill him.”

“ _That’s_ the plan?” Melinda looks at him in disbelief, “How do you kill _this_?” she asks, motioning towards the list on the wall

“With the harpoon.”

She stares at him incredulously.

“You were able to draw blood with that harpoon. Logically, it means you can kill him with it.”

“And we’re going to corner him, where, exactly?”

“An ancient temple in Yucatán. But the last time we tried to kill him there didn’t turn out… well.”

She stops herself from asking any more questions, “So, your plan is to corner him in this temple and kill him with the harpoon.” She says. It’s not the stupidest plan she’s ever heard of but… “With all your tech, that’s the best idea you can come up with?”

He scowls at her, “I’ve chased this monster for a long time. Sometimes, the best plan is just to go with the flow.”

“You want me to kill a superpowered entity who’s going to destroy Earth and you’re telling me to _wing_ it.” 

She huffs in frustration and looks back at the wall of text. At the corner of her eye, she sees him pick up the harpoon from the table.

“Originally, you were supposed to be bait and I kill him with this.” He sardonically says, “But...” He hands the weapon to her. 

She takes it in annoyance. There’s a tingle in her fingertips and for a split second, the harpoon _glows_.

“Seems to me you’re the only one who can _use_ it.”

Melinda can hear the bartender in her head, telling her that he stole his Pap’s harpoon from his father because someone was going to need it someday.

She looks at Sarge and then back at the harpoon. 

“What is it, fingerprint-activated? Insane how you’d put that tech on a hunting gear instead of your combustion-type weapons. Granted, it’s vibranium, and it’s a rare metal in most universes but…” Sarge trails off and shakes his head as he takes his clunky tablet from the glass table.

“Yucatán is a two-day drive from Reno.” She states, keeping the harpoon beside her.

“We’re arriving in four hours.” He says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Melinda wants to ask how the _fuck_ that’s possible, but finally decides against it, “Anything else I should know about?” she asks instead.

Without a word, the Impostor presses something on the table, and it slowly lowers itself down to the floor. He takes a step back and suddenly the lights go out and the room goes pitch dark. 

It catches her off guard, but then she hears… the calm rustling of a river?

She keeps absolutely still when she feels the temperature going down and her nose begins to smell cool air and damp soil.

The lights slowly go back on and the gray walls are gone.

She now finds herself standing in a stone amphitheater. Dense vines cover the walls and when she looks up, she sees a dome high above her head. Sunlight streams in from the opening at its center, shining directly at a large table on top of a raised platform.

For the third time in the past twenty-four hours, she finds herself agape in this Not-Truck, trying to reconcile how something that looks dilapidated on the inside can somehow hide something like this.

Melinda looks at him, not able to hold back her astonishment.

(There’s a tiny voice in her head saying that this is too much for one person to handle; that she can’t possibly take on a superpowered Grant Ward with a list of powers that even the human-ish AIDA didn’t have; that she only agreed to do this because the man who looks like Phil Coulson asked her to do it)

“This is a ritual chamber in the Temple of the Forgotten.” He walks beside her, “They call it the Hall of Pachakutiq.” 

(she ignores it)

“It’s where we’re going to kill Leviathan once and for all.”

\- - - - - -

The _Zephyr_ disappears into the clouds, leaving the sky blue and clear. Warm breeze tickles her nose and Melinda breathes in the scent of the ocean, letting out a satisfied sigh as she basks in the sense of calm.

Hand in hand, they walk towards their cottage. They’re the only souls in this island; the next town is a twenty-minute boat ride away. They won’t be always completely alone, though—supplies will be delivered by a local contact every week.

They drop their bags by the doorway. The cottage is bright and airy with an open floor plan, while their bedroom is separated by a pair of sliding doors that’s currently wide open.

“You sure you want to be stuck with me here? I might hang on for _months_.” He says as they check the view of the beach from the large windows in their bedroom.

He says it jokingly but they both know that she’ll gladly stay even if he lives on for years.

“I’m right where I want to be.”

Phil dips his head and kisses her. He starts tantalizingly slow, his tongue exploring her mouth, while she reacquaints herself with his taste.

She feels dizzy when they pull away from each other to catch their breaths.

“Still wanna go parasailing?” he asks in a low tone.

Melinda licks her lips as her fingers rest on the buckle of his belt. 

“Hmm,” she starts and presses her body closer to him. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Phil grins and kisses her again.

* * *

Her hair sticks to the sweat at the back of her neck as she breathes in the humid air. They’ve been trekking uphill for almost twenty minutes along a barely treaded path; Sarge is walking in front of her, with a rucksack slung on his shoulder and carrying the harpoon in his left hand. He barely spoke since they set off for the temple, only occasionally looking back to check if she’s still behind him.

It’s just the two of them— everyone else was left in the truck with Deke, just in case they can’t kill the Ward doppelgänger.

After a hundred or so yards, the terrain flattens. They cross a shallow stream and walk through the lush greenery, which thins out as they follow the trail.

“We’re here.”

They don’t move forward. Instead, Sarge sets down his pack and takes his tablet. He looks at it with the frown before surveying their surroundings as if everything around them had personally offended him in some way.

He jams it back to the bag, “All clear.” He says and unholsters his weapon from his hip and hands her the harpoon. “Let’s go.”

With his weapon pointed at the ground, Sarge marches ahead. After a few seconds, he looks back and Melinda reluctantly follows him to a cavern that leads to a tunnel. The smell of the soil assaults her nose and as they go further inside, the light slowly disappears while the air grows cooler. 

They walk. She can barely make out his outline in the dark, and he doesn’t make conversation but he’s radiating so much restless energy that even without the sound of their footsteps on the ground, she can pinpoint where he is.

(and the fact that he doesn’t seem to have any problem with turning his back on her says more about her than him)

After a few minutes, they reach the end of the tunnel.

The thick leaves of the trees filter the afternoon sun, keeping the temperature mild. The birds are chirping around them, but it’s almost drowned out by the sound of the rushing river. 

Up ahead, Melinda sees the temple and it looks the way it was in the simulation—large blocks of stone overrun by foliage. 

“Stay close.” He instructs, looking at his device when they reach the wide spiral staircase, “They don’t build these things exactly the same way.”

She closes the gap between them with just a step, following his exact movements as they go down. The ground seems solid enough, but she can also hear something crumbling with every step she takes.

He thinks she can kill Grant Ward’s eviler doppelgänger and _maybe_ she can, but it doesn’t mean she has to go with his plan of going with the flow. When prodded, it turns out he knows three points of entry and five different escape routes out of the temple.

As they make their way to the ritual chambers, Melinda tries not to notice how accurate the truck’s simulation was; or how unease has settled firmly on her chest as her instincts tell her that she’s way, _way_ over her head.

They’re one corner turn away from their destination when Sarge suddenly stops. His brows are furrowed and he’s staring at his device like it’s some bearer of terrible news.

She waits for him to speak.

“Someone’s here.” He says and packs away his device.

It doesn’t escape her notice that he didn’t say _Leviathan_ , but before she can say anything about it, he turns to look at her.

“Kill him before he kills you.”

He looks like Phil; sounds like Phil. But he isn’t _him_.

“Inspiring pep talk.” She replies in a dry tone. 

She hears a mirthless chuckle from him as they go their separate ways.

A divide-and-conquer tactic is the only possible approach against a superpowered being like Leviathan. As he had originally planned, she’s bait, while he (and his carefully placed bombs) would be the distraction.

Melinda grips the harpoon tightly and walks to the ritual chamber.

(she had promised Phil that she will retire, that she will spoil the grandkids, that she will live long enough to teach Daisy’s kids to fly. But if she ends up dying in the process of killing a superpowered Grant Ward, well… she thinks that’s a good enough story to tell him in the afterlife)

The smell of dank moss pervades her nostrils as she enters the Hall of Pachakutiq. The sun makes the block of stones on the elevated table glow.

But instead of Leviathan basking in the sunlight, as Sarge predicted, she finds… someone else.

“Dr. Benson?”

Marcus Benson, whose SHIELD clearance is only three days old, is circling around the platform, fascinated at the ritual table on top of it. He’s wearing an all-brown ensemble, looking like an Indiana Jones wannabe, complete with the hat.

“Ah, Agent May.”

She seems to have startled him, but he doesn’t look surprised that she’s _here_.

Melinda’s cautiously walks towards him as her mind races, trying to remember if ‘shapeshifting’ is in the list of Leviathan’s powers. 

“I didn’t think you’ll already be here.”

She looks at him suspiciously, “What are _you_ doing here?”

But before he could reply, Sarge suddenly appears out of nowhere and points his weapon at Benson’s head.

“Don’t—” she says, but Benson waves her off.

Melinda’s muscles tense as she anticipates the worst. It’s just her luck that she’s going to end up having to protect a civilian who had only been a SHIELD agent for less than a week from someone wearing the face of the man she loved, but hey, that’s the universe for her.

(the universe must hate her so much)

But then….

“Sarge,” Benson says with a curt nod.

“Professor.” Sarge greets back, not lowering his weapon.

There’s a split second where she doesn’t know what to do, how to react. As a specialist, it takes a lot to dumbfound her but everything that has happened the past few days – the past twenty-four hours, even – is just a _bit_ too much for her brain to handle.

“How long has it been? Thirty years?”

“I thought they put you in the Cooler.”

( _too._

_fucking._

_much_ )

She swiftly points the harpoon at Benson, “Explain.” She says with a growl, “ _Now_.”

Benson sighs, seemingly unfazed with weapons being pointed at him.

“They’re looking for you.”

She gives him a dissatisfied stare.

Benson glances at Sarge, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but a lot of Timebreakers arrived a few hours ago.”

“ _Here_?”

“Yes.”

Sarge’s posture shifts. His jaw clenches and something flickers on his face which disappears as his frown deepens.

Melinda feels her stomach twisting itself as her frustration and confusion grow. She stiffly clutches on to the harpoon, the metal starting to chafe on her skin.

“You’re both making me uncomfortable.” Benson says when a minute pass and they still haven’t made a move to lower their weapons.

“Timebreakers.” She says, rather than put away the harpoon from his face.

“They’re aliens.” Benson replies.

“Asshole aliens.” Sarge adds and holsters his weapon, “If they’re here, Leviathan’s going to lay low.”

She doesn’t do the same, “Why.”

“Because he’s not going to mess with a bunch of aliens who can undo him if they want to.” He answers, “That man’s harmless; a thief.”

“I’m not a thief.” The older man protests.

“How’d you get here?” Sarge asks and when Benson doesn’t say anything, he smugly smiles, “Just as I thought.”

She remembers his confusion regarding Phil Coulson, how he had acted like he didn’t _recognize_ him. It’s obvious they know each other; it’s not overtly friendly, but it’s not overly hostile either.

Which calls into question how little she knows of this man when she had recruited for SHIELD.

“I taught at Culver and I knew Andrew Garner enough that I’ve met his ex-wife but,” Benson says, as though he’s heard her thoughts. He looks at her apologetically, “Whoever you believe me to be, the truth is only half of it.”

“His… ex-wife?” she repeats, noting he never said her name.

Benson looks for Sarge, now out of sight and probably picking up the explosives he placed around the chamber.

“It’s complicated. But I swear, I’m not the enemy here.”

(with all these doppelgängers, the talk about time travel and of universes, and of aliens, she doesn’t know what to think anymore)

“You stole a quinjet?” because if those aliens arrived a few hours ago, he wouldn’t have time to fly commercial and arrive here before them.

“…I may have borrowed one.”

“You flew it?”

“Not really.”

She narrows her eyes.

“It’s _still_ in one piece.”

This time, Melinda lowers the harpoon, “SHIELD can use it to track you down.”

“I know.”

“He wants them here, lead them to me.” Sarge says with an acerbic tone as he walks towards their position, “Am I interrupting your retirement, Professor?”

Benson moves, hobbling towards the steps of the platform and sits down, “This isn’t retirement and you know it.”

“Your outfit says otherwise.”

“Says someone who looks like they haven’t showered for a week.”

Melinda ignores the unfriendly banter, “So what’s your plan?” she asks, turning towards Sarge.

“We wait.” Considering he didn’t want SHIELD’s help, that sounds counterintuitive, “It won’t be long. It’s just a three, five-minute wait, tops.”

“You think the Timebreakers can help you kill Wa—Leviathan?”

“Help?” he scoffs, “Timebreakers don’t _help_. They make a mess and everyone else picks up after them. Maybe Leviathan’s their mess, maybe this is something else; but whatever it is, I’m going to… have a word with them.”

It sounds like he’s going to do something stupid.

Suddenly, she hears a loud hiss, like metal being welded. At the other end of the chamber, Melinda sees a yellow spark appearing out of thin air, slowly forming a circle.

“There they are.”

The dark spot in the middle of the circle disappears and a group of men clad in black, carrying long weapons step out of it.

“Agent Melinda May of SHIELD.” The tall man states after they stop just a few feet away from them.

“Who’s asking?” she replies as she watches his companions surround Sarge and Benson, pointing a square device at them.

“I am Malachi, a sentient Chronicom from a…”

Alarm bells begin to ring in Melinda’s mind.

“… in the constellation you know as Cygnus.”

“What do you want?” she coolly asks.

“Come with me.”

“No.”

The Chronicom tilts his head to the side, “Director Mackenzie says that that is an order.”

She rolls her eyes and motions for him to lead the way.

Satisfied with her response, Malachi turns around and walks back to the portal. Melinda bites back an annoyed sigh and follows him through the portal and into...

Outside.

They’re still in the same location, judging from the trees and ground. As her eyes adjust to the light, she sees Mack in the distance, standing beside a tall woman with curly hair and wearing a long robe.

And just behind them, the _Zephyr_.

Melinda picks up her pace.

“You okay?” Mack asks, not hiding the concern in his tone. 

“Yeah.” She looks around, “Deke’s in the truck.”

“There’s a team on standby.” Mack tells her.

She looks at the woman beside him, who looks back at her curiously.

Melinda assumes she’s also Chronicom and decides she doesn’t want introductions—it’s going to have the same script, just like with Enoch, with Noah, and most recently, with Malachi.

“The man in that cave wants to talk.” She says and she doesn’t know if she meant it as a warning or as an advice.

A steely expression appears on the woman’s face, “I see.”

She and Mack exchange a glance and he motions behind him.

“Tremors is inside.”

She stoically nods her head and goes up the landing bay, with the lightness in her step the only thing that reveals the change in her mood.

“May!”

Daisy’s face lights up as she runs to her, wrapping her in a large embrace. Melinda leans against her as relief surges her veins and she uses her free hand to hug back.

The younger woman pulls away slightly, “Oh my god, I was so worried—” she stops and gapes at her left hand, “What’s that?”

Melinda looks at the harpoon she’s still carrying.

 _The tip of the iceberg_ , she wants to say.

“A long story.”


	3. The Duck Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team looks for answers and the Chronicoms provide some of them. May makes a deal with Sarge in behalf of SHIELD.

Melinda lingers by the _Zephyr_ ’s cockpit, observing Piper and Davis as they navigate the ship (her ship) out of the forest. She hasn’t made a sound – in fact, no one has made a sound, which tells her that the two agents are aware of her presence.

She looks around. There are stains on the floor and dents on the platform that weren’t there when she last stepped into the pilot seat.

“Hey.” Daisy pops up beside her and glances at their pilots before looking at her, “You’re scaring them.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been here.” She shrugs as a small, playful smile appears on her lips.

“Just so you know, we haven’t crashed it or anything.” Piper says from the front. “At least, I think Davis hasn’t crashed it.”

From where she’s standing, she can see Davis shooting Piper a sharp look.

(they’ve _definitely_ crashed it)

Daisy stands beside her and she can’t help but feel the tension in her body easing. It’s been over a month since they last saw each other, and she can’t wait to spend her off time with the younger woman. She’s sure she’ll be listening to a lot of space adventures at six in the morning in the near future.

“Can I… can I talk to you for a sec?” Daisy suddenly asks, flashing a tight smile. 

Melinda makes a small hum, which Daisy interprets as a yes. The younger woman then goes out of the cockpit, leading her to the sound-proof conference room on the upper part of the ship.

“Everything okay?” she asks as the door closes behind her.

The _Zephyr_ is transporting Sarge’s crew and Benson – all four kept in separate containment units – while Deke’s trying to find duct tape to enact some sort of revenge on their captors. Sarge, on the other hand, is in the Chronicoms’s ship, together with Mack and a team of five agents.

(the harpoon’s been secured, kept in a box and ready to be transported to the Lighthouse’s labs)

Daisy keeps her back turned for a few seconds before facing her. 

“Um, I think you need to sit down for this.” She tells her.

Melinda wants to ask what kind of talk they’re going to have that she needs to sit down, but she obliges without question and sits on the nearest chair.

“Remember when we had tai-chi for the first time after you came back from Tahiti, and it just felt… different?” Daisy starts, “And we kinda thought it’s because Coulson’s gone, and of course everything feels different.”

She slowly nods her head.

“Jemma complained that the equipment in the lab weren’t keeping time, and Elena saying she feels slower… Mack hasn’t said anything, but I know he’s also felt something off.”

The _Zephyr_ shakes a little, and Melinda can’t tell if it’s the altitude or Daisy.

“Daisy…?” she asks, concerned, and the younger woman just _stops_.

“This is going to sound really crazy, but um, when Enoch took us from the diner, he didn’t just send us to the future. He sent us…”

Daisy takes a deep breath.

“He sent us to an alternate universe.”

* * *

The brisk spray of the cold water on her face is a welcome reprieve from the thoughts swirling in her head. 

_“…so, alternate universes are real, Enoch basically committed an inter-alternate universe abduction, and we’re stuck here without Fitz. Worst of all, the Chronicoms don’t know how to get us back home.”_

_“There’s a but in there.”_

_“But I know Jemma will find a way.”_

Daisy’s words had sent her reeling, and she knows that she hasn’t fully absorbed this new information or its ramifications but when she overcame the initial shock— when she took the time to evaluate everything that she’s seen and experienced the past year, factoring in that odd sensation that everything feels out of place… it’s an explanation that makes sense.

Melinda stays under the shower for several more minutes before switching to the hot water. Steam fills the tiny bathroom as she carefully lathers soap on her skin.

She purposefully takes this time for herself; the next few days are going to be hell.

When she feels her fingers and toes starting to wrinkle, she switches off the water and steps out of the shower. She grabs the towel and dries herself, mentally preparing for another round of tests from the doctors.

She was whisked off to Medical when they arrived in the Lighthouse and she’s still on this side of the base— Dr. Shahn refused to let her leave, saying they need to run more tests.

(half of the extraction team – including Keller and Liang – are all in some sort of a coma; everyone else is under observation for another twenty-four hours, including Elena, whom she still hasn’t seen.)

She argued she needed a shower. Dr. Shahn responded by escorting her to one of the private rooms and ordering Daisy to pick a change of clothes for her.

And the younger woman picked a black ensemble that she could very well have chosen.

When she steps out of the bathroom, she sees Mack by the doorway, speaking to Dr. Shahn in hushed tones. She continues with drying her hair, innocuously attempting to read their lips and snoop in on their conversation.

(it’s about radiation and proteins, muscle trauma and skeletal fracture. Things that would make sense if she knows the context of what they’re talking about)

By the time Mack enters the room, she’s finished putting on her boots.

“Here to break me out of jail?”

“Temporarily.”

He doesn’t have to say it twice. She wordlessly takes her jacket from the chair and exits the room without a backward glance.

“Surprised you didn’t pull rank.” He muses when he catches up to her.

“Can’t pull rank when you’re in their court.” She mutters, slipping on her jacket as they make their way out of medbay.

They walk through the Lighthouse’s maze of corridors. Mack’s looming figure beside her and the sound of their footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls somehow brings a sense of stability that she’s lacked in the past thirty-three hours.

“You’ve been briefed?” 

“In the _Zephyr_.”

Mack keeps his voice low when they walk by a few agents on their way to medical, “The Chronicoms are insisting that we need Sarge for… whatever the hell we’re facing right now.”

“And Sarge doesn’t agree?”

Mack hands her a tablet, showing her the remote feed of the surveillance cameras in one of the holding quarters. The small table that’s supposed to be at the center of the room has been thrown against the wall, upside down, with one of its legs bent, while the metal chair is sideways on the floor. Sarge is pacing around like a rabid animal.

(if she disregards the DNA test which confirmed that Sarge is a genetic match to Phil and only takes what the Chronicoms told Daisy at face value, then the implication that goes with it – that some universes have versions of them, living their lives out differently… or the same, considering that no one batted an eyelash when they started rebuilding SHIELD here – would mean that Sarge is a Coulson from an alternate universe. 

Which would then mean that trying to approach him in his current state will be a _very_ bad idea)

“Give him a few hours.” Melinda says and hands the tablet back to Mack.

“I’ll give him the rest of the day.”

She glances at him, “Do we have time for that?”

“The Chronicoms say we do.”

They stop in front of the elevator and Mack pushes the up button.

“He doesn’t trust them.” She says, remembering the utter distaste on Sarge’s face and the anger in his tone back in the temple, “Benson, either. Calls them a different name.”

“That’s why we’re interrogating Benson.” He replies, “See what he knows.”

She’s probably the wrong person to bring to the interrogation room; Benson fooled her, and he wasn’t even a good liar.

The elevator opens with a ding, and Mack holds one side of the doors, letting her go in first before stepping inside.

“Got any plans if he refuses to talk?” she asks as she presses the button for the fourth sub-level.

Mack blinks as the elevator doors close.

“Nope.”

* * *

“That Shaw fellow shouldn’t be allowed to wander around.”

Marcus Benson was brought to the nearest interrogation room the moment they arrived in the Lighthouse.

It’s been three hours. He hasn’t touched the water bottle given to him.

Mack ignores him.

“This is Director Mackenzie, with Agent May, conducting an interview with Doctor Marcus Benson…”

As Mack dictates the pre-interview script towards the camera – a protocol he revived and tweaked when SHIELD started engaging with civilian consultants again – Melinda observes him. Benson looks tired; grief is still etched on his face, but his eyes are sharper, and his posture is straighter. They’re subtle changes but there’s a spark in him that wasn’t there a few days ago. 

It’s as if he’s found purpose again.

“…do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confirm that your name is Marcus Benson, born on September 15th, 1955 in New Orleans, Louisiana?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confirm that your parents are Frank and Sheila Benson?”

“Yes.”

SHIELD conducted an initial background check on Benson before she sent out feelers to him. It came out clean and a second one was waived based on her endorsement. But when he stole a quinjet, SHIELD’s analysts sprang into action.

Melinda takes the tablet and shows him a scanned copy of an old news article on microfilm, one that they missed during the first background check. Benson looks at it warily. 

“Read the article out loud.” She says, “For the record.”

Benson reluctantly takes his reading glasses from his jacket pocket and puts it on before taking the tablet from her, “Family of Three Dies in Road Accident. September 16th, 1970.” He lets out a long sigh and stares at the article before finally pushing the tablet back to her.

When he doesn’t make a sound, Mack announces, for the record, “The article states that Marcus Benson and his parents, Frank and Sheila Benson, all died on September 16th, 1970.” 

The older man shakes his head and take off his glasses, “There’s a version of that, back in my home universe.” He states and flashes a small, morose smile, “But the headline was _New Orleans Family Figured in Road Accident; Only Son Survived_. The accident made the evening news.”

Mack shifts in his chair.

“Makes you wonder why I keep getting spared from car crashes.” He adds as grief briefly overtakes his features before fading again, “I wouldn’t have been exiled here if this universe’s me was still around.”

It’s either he’s overplaying his hand, or he’s willing to spill everything to them. It’s too early for her to tell.

“Who would exile you here? Why?”

Benson raises his brow in mock surprise and leans forward.

(he’s overplaying it)

“The Timebreakers haven’t told you anything?”

“I was given the impression they’re not trustworthy.” Melinda counters.

“Only when they ask for help.” He clarifies, “I’m sure they’re a pleasant group when they don’t ask you to do something for them.”

Melinda stares at him and waits for him to answer the question.

Benson sighs, “I… I was part of an organization, much like SHIELD, but wider in scope—much wider.” He says, “I broke protocol. Several, in fact. Sarge was the Bureau agent assigned to apprehend me; turns out he had inadvertently asked clemency on my behalf. I was exiled to this universe after a year in detention.”

“You knew Sarge before you were exiled here.” She says, slowly, as annoyance spikes in her veins.

“Well, not personally.” He looks at her and sees her raised brow. “Look, the Bureau doesn’t… we didn’t give away our real names to just anyone. You’re either known by the nickname you chose, or the nickname you were stuck with. I can’t confirm to you if Sarge is Phil Coulson, because I don’t _know_ his name.”

“You implied that Agent May faked Agent Coulson’s death.” Mack points out.

Benson opens his mouth and closes it again.

“I’m sorry.” 

Melinda brushes off his apology, “This Bureau, what does it do?”

He hesitates. “It’s going to sound like… science fiction.”

“Is it good science fiction, at least? Because the ones we’ve been through the past few years were really bad ones.” Mack’s tone sounded both amused and resigned, and Melinda knows that the man has a list of all the weird shit he’s anticipating in the next few years hidden in his desk drawer.

Benson takes a deep breath, “ _Primarily_ , the Bureau deals with… preserving the integrity of timelines.”

“You chase time travelers.” She states. It would explain Sarge’s fixation on Deke.

“Historical events can have so many different outcomes. Naturally-occurring ones – those borne from a series of individual choices leading to… a distinctive conclusion of a historical event – creates stable branches. It doesn’t intersect with any timeline, especially from where it branched off.”

The older man looks at their faces, trying to figure out if they could still follow him, before continuing.

“Going back in time to _forcibly_ change history creates volatile branches. Timelines and universes that collapse sooner rather than later. And when these branches collapse, it takes along with it a _lot_ of universes.”

He opens the water bottle and takes a drink, “The Bureau also monitors accidental travelers – like Shaw – and inter-universe transfers.”

“What happens to these people?”

“It depends. The harmless ones get sent back to where they came from. The more malicious ones get… well, they get what they deserve.”

If she was surprised by the sudden ruthless tone that tumbled out with Benson’s words, she doesn’t show it.

“And where do the Chronicoms fit in that?”

A weary chuckle escapes the older man, “They’re a league of their own; they can travel through time and space undetected. I know they have an oath not to intervene, but I think some of their people didn’t get that memo.” He shakes his head, “By the time the Bureau discovers they’ve done something to change the course of history, there’s already a bizarre-looking monitor observing a new universe.”

“And that’s what you call your organization? The Bureau.” Mack prods.

“The Time Bureau.”

Melinda rolls her eyes.

(of course, an organization that monitors timelines will be called something like the ‘Time Bureau’)

“TIME— the Temporal Interference Monitoring and Enforcement Bureau.” Benson retorts, “You’re not the only ones overly fond of acronyms.”

“Let’s say we believe you.” Mack starts, “Let’s say we believe that there’s a secret organization out there that monitors time travel, inter-dimensional travel, whatever travel… wouldn’t they have intervened by now? After everything? With what’s happening?”

Benson shakes his head, “It’s been thirty years since I last stepped in the Bureau headquarters. I have a theory why they haven’t shown up. I don’t think you’d like it.”

He doesn’t need to say out loud what his theory is. Even without the Chronicoms telling them, Sarge’s hunt for Leviathan reeks of righteous fury and vengeance.

She glances at Mack, who looks back at her with a hint of worry.

They’re on their own.

\- - - - -

She didn’t think she could sleep that easily, thinking that after everything that’s happened in the past forty-eight hours, she’d end up tossing and turning in bed.

Surprisingly though, she dozes off the moment her head hits her pillow.

When she wakes up – a few minutes earlier than her alarm – there’s already three messages on her phone. All from Daisy, with the earliest one sent at 3.47 AM.

_left u bagel in the kitchen_

_will be at the lab w jemma_

_jemma says no food in the lab_

The bagel pairs well with her tea, and when she finishes her breakfast, decides to see what Daisy and Jemma are up to.

As she quietly slips inside the lab, she sees three large whiteboards at the other side of the room, which weren’t here yesterday. Jemma has her back turned towards the door, scribbling something on one of the whiteboards.

There are several mugs sitting on a table by the door, some with a teaspoon in them while some have crumpled-up tissue.

Something tells her they’ve been here for a while.

“Turns out, being an Iron Man groupie doesn’t mean I know when the Avengers Initiative was… initiated.” Daisy announces, hunched in front of her laptop, in between stacks of folders.

“Are you sure it’s not there?” Jemma presses.

“It’s not mentioned in the 2012 files. There’s a mention of a Protector Initiative in 2011, but… that’s it.”

“What’s going on.” Melinda asks as she approaches the whiteboards. One has a long horizontal line at the center, with different years indicated below it— 2009, 2012, 2013, 2016. Another board has a checklist of current events, most with checkmarks than x’s. The last one is still blank.

“What’s all this?” she asks, motioning towards the boards.

“Oh, Agent May, good morning.” Jemma greets, rushing towards her to give her a quick hug. 

“She’s trying to figure out where we are.” Daisy says at the same time.

Jemma nods her head and gives her a bright (caffeine-induced) smile, “The Chronicoms said that new timelines – alternate universes – are deviations from major historical events. Terrans – that’s what they call us – are prone to have more of it because of our _fickle-minded_ nature.” She glances at Daisy, “Have I mentioned they’re condescending? Because they are _so_ condescending.”

She turns her attention back to her, “I’m trying to determine which historical event this universe may have deviated from. I have a theory that pinpointing the… fork in the road can help us figure a way back home.”

Melinda raises her brow.

“I know it’s not my expertise. There will be a lot of physics involved. Quantum mechanics, definitely. Maybe astrophysics too. But…” Jemma trails off and that too-bright-a-smile cracks, “I’ll make sure we get home.”

Because that’s where Fitz is.

Telling Jemma that she shouldn’t put too much pressure on herself will be a mistake; it’s a coping mechanism she shares with Fitz; most of the time it yields results to their advantage.

(and then sometimes, it doesn’t)

“What do you have?” she says and takes a seat at one end of the table. 

Jemma quickly goes in front of the whiteboards. “Well, we have more or less the same history from the 90’s to the 2000’s.” 

“Except for a few things.” Daisy pipes up, “Like, it’s _Ted and Bill’s Excellent Adventures_. Not _Bill and Ted’s_ — which means _I_ was also correct, so Davis and I are tied for the most time travel movies.” Daisy looks at her and sees the blank expression on her face, “Anyway. Almost the same history, not so much for pop culture.”

“Right, but, here’s where it they have it different.” Jemma turns to the second whiteboard with the checklist, “They had the Siege of New York, and Hydra destroyed SHIELD around the same time but—”

Jemma points to the first x mark, “the Battle of Sokovia didn’t happen. Daisy’s trying to find an equivalent to the Sokovia Accords…” she points to the second x mark, “…but it seems like they don’t have it.”

“What Jemma is trying to say is that this universe doesn’t have the Avengers.” Daisy says.

“So, they don’t have a Captain America here? No Iron Man?” Melinda asks.

“Oh, no, they’re here—” Jemma answers.

“—they’re just… they’re not a team.” Daisy adds, “Which we probably would have noticed earlier if any of us had a social life.”

“But it makes sense.” Jemma interjects, “I remember Elena saying she found it strange that no one mentioned the Avengers even once when we were in the future. I didn’t think much of it that time, but she was right! I mean, if you think about it, with their powers and abilities, they could have easily rose up to mythical and legendary status almost a century into the future.”

“Even Deke’s framework rip-off didn’t have any trace of the Avengers.” Daisy mentions. “I don’t think he even knows them.”

Which explains why they’re looking for that specific project.

“Fury started drafting the Avengers Initiative protocol around ’95.” Melinda says, “Coulson didn’t talk about it much. Surprisingly.”

She feels a sudden shift in the energy of the room, and Melinda remembers that they potentially have another Coulson sitting in one of their holding cells upstairs.

“Did he… say anything about it?” Daisy says in a forced, light tone.

“It was one of his first major field assignments.” And he had been so excited about it, “There were shapeshifting aliens and a woman with blaster hands.”

“Shapeshifting aliens?” Jemma echoes, raising a brow

“A woman with blaster hands?” Daisy repeats, wrinkling her nose.

“And an alien autopsy. The incident happened around the same year. If it’s in the system, it’s going to be classified.” She adds, “Or, probably in the Toolbox.”

Daisy starts typing on her laptop and a few seconds later, “I don’t think that happened here, because the system would have definitely flagged my search queries.”

“Well, this seems like _the_ deviation.” She hears Jemma muttering under her breath as she writes on the board.

Melinda takes a folder from the pile on the table as Daisy and Jemma exchange ideas. The folder contains a report from 2012, regarding the alien attack in New York. Even at first glance, she knows that the New York siege happened differently from the one back home.

Because this report was written by Phil Coulson.

“So, a bunch of shapeshifting aliens don’t go to Earth in ’95, and that’s how this universe branched off from ours?” Daisy starts typing again, “Wait. No. The Ted and Bill movie was released here in… 1989? So… maybe something happened in ’89 – or maybe before that – that made the aliens not go here in ‘95?”

“And since that incident in 1995 didn’t happen here, the protocol for the Avengers Initiative wasn’t created.”

He didn’t die in this timeline. Suddenly, there’s a part of her that’s itching to dig into all these files to see what else is different. The team’s history is almost the same; otherwise, they would have heard about it— the SHIELD agents in this universe are a gossipy bunch too.

(but mostly it’s to know if this universe’s Melinda May had been as broken as she was after Bahrain)

“That could explain why the branching off didn’t directly affect this timeline for at least twenty years.” Daisy muses, “A group of aliens gave Fury the idea to create the Avengers; and another group brought them together for real.”

“Which means _this_ deviation could not have made been by _fickle-minded_ Terrans!” Jemma then makes a face, “Which also means it’s going to be much more difficult trying to determine the exact time this universe branched off.”

Processing Jemma and Daisy’s conversation, she suddenly remembers they have someone who might have expertise in that area.

Melinda closes the file, “Dr. Benson might be able to help.”

Mack might not be too keen with asking for Benson’s assistance, but she knows that nothing’s going to stop Jemma when she sets her mind on something. Pointing her towards the direction of someone who could possibly help is a safer route.

Before anyone could respond to her, she hears the simultaneous buzz of their phones. She pulls her phone from her jacket and checks the message.

_Conference room. Ten minutes._

Yesterday, armed with the (little) new knowledge they have after interviewing Benson, Mack headed straight to another meeting with the Chronicoms, intending to collect as much intel as possible.

They haven’t briefed each other as a group; all they have on their own are fragments of the whole picture. 

She pushes her chair and stands up.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Melinda wonders how many times a person could be the subject of a prophecy before the idea of being in one becomes acceptable.

She thinks it should be zero.

(prophecies are – in her own personal opinion – bullshit. Bull- _fucking_ -shit)

Yet here she is, learning they’re right in the middle of another one for the second year in a row.

“You’re kidding, right?” Daisy says, verbalizing what everybody else is thinking.

All of them – Elena included – are in one of the larger conference rooms with Atarah, leader of the Chronicoms, and her two (armed) Chronicom guards.

Sarge is nowhere in sight.

“Let’s… let’s just…” Daisy breathes out, “There’s a version of us – alternate universe us who lived in evil, superpowered Grant Ward’s timeline – that had weapons which could kill him, but they died before they could do that and you believe that this is the only place where he could be stopped?”

And those weapons – created in a universe where science flourished with magic – were all enchanted so it will only respond to its owners, binding them to this mess.

“We do not _believe_.” Atarah saunters in front of them, her dark robes flowing behind her. “We _know_.” 

From what she gathered from Enoch, the Chronicoms do not look human at all, only taking this form to be more presentable; less threatening.

And Atarah choosing the form of a striking woman with dusky skin, and curly hair makes Melinda curious about what kind of power this Chronicom is holding.

“Can’t you kill him yourselves?” Daisy asks again.

“We have tried.” Atarah replies. She has a melodic voice, without the robotic edge that Enoch had, “And in the process, completely destroyed eighteen timelines, damaged countless others and after all that, only succeeded in imprisoning him for fifty years.”

Mack is seated on one end of the table, rubbing the temples of his head. He looks like he lost ten pounds since yesterday.

“Why does Sarge think Leviathan’s afraid of you?” Melinda finally speaks, “He thinks you can undo him.”

“We _can_ undo him, but the consequences are… far too great to be acceptable.”

She sees Daisy starting to fidget in her seat. Beside her, Jemma’s drumming her fingers on the table. Elena’s sitting unnaturally still while Mack has leaned back on his chair, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“Our alternates died.” Elena remarks, “What’s going to be different this time around?”

Atarah clasps her hands together, “This time, we are not going to directly interfere.”

“And how many alternate versions of us had to die before you reached that conclusion?” Jemma stonily inquires.

It was a rhetorical question but the Chronicom tilts her head to the side, the curls of her hair bouncing.

“Twenty-five.”

Her stomach twists itself into a knot as uncomfortable silence descends upon them.

“And we’re supposed to just… trust you.” Daisy states as she glances at Mack, whose face is currently inscrutable.

“As I’ve told our guests, SHIELD is taking everything they’re saying as intel that can neither be verified nor confirmed.”

“I know that your first interaction with our kind was… less than ideal.” Atarah smoothly interjects, “But this is not the time to play coy.”

“Less than ideal? Someone from your _kind_ abducted us.” Jemma fumes, “To save a future that wasn’t even ours to begin with.”

Melinda draws in a sharp breath as it finally sinks in – truly sinks in – that they aren’t from this universe.

Her chest tightens. 

_He’s going to die._

A child’s voice echoes in her head.

( _he’s going to die_ )

Robin’s drawings, her prophecies… it wasn’t for them.

And Phil didn’t have to choose between saving the world and taking the cure, but because of Enoch— because they were brought here to prevent humanity’s extinction, his fate was sealed.

(how many other versions of them had their lives upended because of the Chronicoms? And how many lives have been lost because they’ve waited for a situation where Leviathan travels to a universe that had their team with the same relationships? With the same set of skills?

If they somehow do get home, she’s going to strangle Enoch with her bare hands)

“Enoch made… mistakes.” Atarah concedes, with a shake of her head, “But his mistakes led to this timeline. Bringing together the same team who will be able to defeat Leviathan.”

“We aren’t complete.” Daisy pointedly says.

“You have a Phillip J. Coulson in one room, who can travel through other universes and bring you to the weapons forged by a Leopold Fitz.”

Something starts to simmer in this room, like a restless hum underneath the skin; an itch on the palm, on the soles of their feet. The unshakable feeling that you’re slowly being untethered from the ground.

(in worst case scenarios, it makes people think they’re invincible)

Atarah looks at each and every one of them, as if committing their faces to memory. Their eyes meet and the Chronicom looks down, guilt flashing on her face so fast it felt like it was just from her imagination.

“I have said my piece, Director Mackenzie.” Atarah announces, “I will leave you and your team to decide this universe’s fate.”

The Chronicom turns around, nodding to one of her guards and almost instantly, a portal appears in front of her. As the Chroncioms step through the portal, she sees glimpses of white and silver and a bustle of activity before it all disappears from sight.

Everybody immediately turns towards Mack.

“Leaving us to decide this universe’s fate?” Daisy’s face wrinkles in distaste “So, it’s going be _our_ fault whichever way we decide?”

“I don’t trust her.” Elena declares.

“I think they meant _refusal to take responsibility_ when they said refusal to interfere.” Jemma mutters.

Melinda doesn’t say anything. Her opinion of the Chronicoms have already been colored by Sarge’s physical reaction to them – one that borders into retching – and her bone-deep annoyance with Enoch.

Mack sighs, “Look, I don’t trust them either. But we have eight agents in coma because of Wa—of Leviathan and we’re out of our depth. SHIELD shouldn’t count out what they know.”

_They cannot be trusted when they’re asking for help._

“But I know that there’s one person who wants Leviathan gone as much as we do.” he continues, “And he doesn’t want to help.”

“Do we really need the low-rent Coulson for this?” Daisy asks.

Mack glances at her with hesitation across his face which quickly disappears. “Inter-universe travel is involved, and we won’t be able to replicate Chronicom tech with the timeframe we have.”

Jemma raises a brow, “How much time do we have?”

“Sarge says we have a month, at the most. Chronicoms insist we have more.”

“Why doesn’t he want to help?” Elena asks.

“Let’s just say he thinks the Chronicoms are… full of shit.”

Sarge’s fury rendered him unapproachable yesterday. She knows he was part of the meeting prior to this and whatever happened in that meeting led to Atarah having two armed guards with Sarge being held in another room.

She assumes he’s just as angry now. Maybe angrier.

“Maybe we could ask Dr. Benson if he can replicate the tech?” Jemma weakly suggests.

Despite what she thought earlier, Benson might not be able to help. The man was exiled— which could either mean the TIME Bureau knew that he won’t be able to figure out a way to leave, or they knew that the resources wouldn’t exist here.

Melinda takes a deep breath.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Everyone looks at her, almost violently.

“ _No_.” Daisy says in a forceful tone.

“Not a good idea, May.” Elena adds.

Mack seems to be weighing their options while Jemma has a contemplative expression on her face.

“He wants Ward – Leviathan – dead.” She reasons, “But he’s not going to trust the Chronicoms. And it’s going to be difficult to get him to trust SHIELD.”

“May… what makes you think he’s going to trust you?” Jemma gently asks.

“He wants revenge.” Melinda answers. For whom or for what, she could only hazard a guess, “It’s not about saving universes. At this point, it’s all about killing Leviathan.”

She can sense their rising apprehension, their concern. 

Their disapproval.

Jemma clears her throat.

“I’m… I’m with May on this one.” She flashes a doleful look at both Daisy and Elena, “I genuinely believe she might be able to convince him.”

“How? He doesn’t know her!” Daisy glowers, “And she doesn’t know him. Not really.”

Elena shakes her head, “That man… isn’t the Phil Coulson we know.”

Jemma sighs, “Yes, but she was kidnapped by him. He asked her to kill evil Ward, which tells me there’s already a baseline of trust on his part.” She looks at her, “He _isn’t_ Coulson. And I’m certain you’re not going to approach him thinking that he is.”

Silence.

“I gave him my word that I’m going to kill Ward. It won’t hurt to say it again, with SHIELD’s backing.” Melinda says, then adds, “I also think he can bring us home.”

He can travel between universes. That’s what he meant when he said that he’s been to a lot of worlds. It’s not a long shot that he knows how to travel to the universe they came from.

All they need is for him to agree.

“Maybe if you tell him we’ve already killed a version of Ward. Maybe it could work.” Elena suggests, playing devil’s advocate.

“He’s been killed twice.” Jemma comments.

No one seems to feel the need to tell her that this idea is going to backfire on her.

(because it will)

Daisy shakes her head, still unconvinced and Melinda glances at Mack.

“I need to speak to Agent May alone.” He says, finally.

There’s a pause, but one by one, the other agents reluctantly leave the conference room. Elena goes out first, followed by Jemma. Daisy leaves last.

“I still think it’s a bad idea.” She remarks before closing the door behind her.

Melinda takes a deep breath and waits for Mack to speak.

“Elena and Daisy are right, you know.”

“I know.”

“But Jemma has a point.” He sighs, “You also have a point.”

This was probably not the kind of crisis Mack expected for his first year as Director of SHIELD. Even with the way the stakes seem to double each year – nazis, inhumans, aliens, robots, time travel – there’s a very wide, very large jump between saving one planet to saving multiple universes.

Mack runs his hand on top of his head, “I actually thought we were going somewhere a few hours ago. Thought he’d continue acting like an arrogant a-hole so full of himself but when the Chronicoms said they couldn’t kill Leviathan, he turns into this… raging bull.”

“As I said— he’s fueled by revenge.”

Mack leans forward and resting his elbows on top of the table as he puts his hands on his nape. He lets out a loud, frustrated sigh before sitting back up again.

“When I took this job, I promised myself I’ll be as honest as possible to every agent who’s going to end up being in the middle of crap like this.”

He seems to be on the fence about her proposal but right now, it’s a stalemate with no other good alternative.

“What else did the Chronicoms say to you?” Melinda prods, “What did they _not_ tell us?”

“I don’t…” Mack trails off when he sees the impassive look on her face.

He exhales, loudly.

“Phillip J. Coulson can put the pieces back together. That’s what they said.”

Her mind repeats it but this time, it’s from a memory of a future that doesn’t happen— a dilapidated Zephyr, with air that taste like rust and an old Robin, saying those words as she reaches out to Phil with an innocent smile.

_Phillip J. Coulson. He can put the pieces back together._

(they’re all just puppets. Puppets on strings)

The walls feel like they’re closing in on her and it’s getting harder to breathe.

“May?”

Melinda’s attention snaps back to Mack who, judging from the anxious set of his shoulders, seems to be a few seconds away from calling Medical.

“Should we bring Robin and Polly in?” she asks in a calm, even tone, catching him off-guard.

He observes her for a few seconds before shaking his head, “I don’t see the need for it right now.”

Uneasy silence falls between them. It won’t be long before the team finds out about this and frankly, she’d rather be alone when they do. Or at least doing something else.

“I recognize it’s a bad idea.” Melinda muses, breaking the silence, “But as Jemma said, we have a baseline of trust. And despite what they’re saying – that he isn’t Coulson – there’s flashes of Phil in him; I can… I can use it.”

“And I’m telling you, as your friend: this is going to backfire on you.”

“How about as Director of SHIELD?”

He lets out a wince and tired laugh. He painted himself in that corner. He sighs once again, “I think there’s a good chance you can convince him. I’m taking it.”

She doesn’t say that what she sees are flashes of Coulson’s worst traits— the arrogance, the righteous anger, the ruthlessness. All of it appearing at the same time when he’s trying to right a wrong, no matter what it takes.

There’s no doubt in her mind that regardless of what happens, this is going to spectacularly blow up in her face.

But she can live with it.

\- - - - - -

She doesn’t bring anything to the interrogation room— no tablet, no file folders, not even a bottle of water to offer him.

(The good cop routine has always been Phil’s style and it usually works for him but it’s also a tactic that doesn’t work against him)

Sarge is standing in one corner, _glaring_ at the one-way mirror like an angry, trapped wolf. His wrists are bound in a tight plastic cuff, but he managed to pull his elbows to his sides, putting his wrists on a cross on top of his chest like a frozen Wakandan salute.

The scowl doesn’t disappear when he sees her.

“Who thinks you’ll be able to change my mind?” he snarls, “the Timebreakers?

The energy swirling in this small room is oppressive, pushing against her as she walks towards the table. “We don’t trust them.” She tonelessly states as she sits.

“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard since yesterday.”

“Sit down.” She commands.

He looks at her, scowl turning into a mocking pout, and suddenly, there’s a stabbing pain in her heart that it almost hurts to breathe.

This man is Phil Coulson. 

_A_ Phil Coulson.

(it was easier, thinking he was an impostor; because then, it didn’t matter that he looked at her with eyes devoid of any recognition)

He sits on the chair across her and puts his hands on top of the table. His wrists are chafed raw from rubbing against the plastic cuffs.

“Where’s your good cop?” Sarge asks, glancing at the door.

“That shit’s not going to work on you.”

He tilts his head – a recognizable quirk that she almost relaxes by instinct – but a pair of unfriendly blue eyes scrutinizes her face. 

It makes her skin crawl.

“Is that so? What do you think’s going to work on me?” he suddenly sounds amiable, a complete reversal from his mood a few seconds ago, but she knows he’s merely reigning in his rabid hostility.

“No beating around the bush, no double talk, no bullshit.” She answers simply. “Just a straightforward discussion of what you and I want from all of this.” 

There’s a time and place for underhandedness, for subterfuge even when it’s a negotiation— Coulson wasn’t just good at it, he _excelled_ in it. 

But today isn’t the time for it.

“What do you think I want?”

“Revenge.”

The expression on his face doesn’t change, “And you want to… save the universe?”

“A way to get back home.”

“Ah.” He slouches back on the chair, and puts his feet up on the table, “For a second, I thought you were gonna say you want your dead boyfriend back.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, and instead glances at his worn-out boots caked in mud before giving him an unimpressed stare.

He smirks, “What’d he do to get himself killed, anyway?”

The serene expression on Coulson’s face just before he passed flashes in her mind.

( _“I’m going to be fine, Phil.” She gently runs her thumb across his cheek and musters a smile for him,_ “We’re _going to be fine.”_ )

Melinda clenches her jaw, “That’s irrelevant.”

Sarge wrinkles his nose in response, “It is, actually. You’re enticing me to help you by dangling revenge in my face. But as I see it, SHIELD’s the benevolent overlord type, filled with selfless agents who’d sacrifice themselves for the greater good.”

He pauses, eyes narrowing suspiciously, “You’re not expecting me to sacrifice myself, are you?”

The thought of another Coulson dying in front of her makes her blood run cold. “No.” She answers, “You can’t bring us back to our universe if you’re dead.”

He barks out a derisive laugh, “Right, right.” He suddenly puts his feet down and leans forward, “If I may offer another option?”

Sarge doesn’t wait for her to respond, “I take you and your friends home. Let the Timebreakers deal with Leviathan.” He shrugs, “Leviathan dies, the Timebreakers die, this unstable mess of a universe gets clipped. I win. You win. Other universes win.”

“The Chronicoms said they can’t kill him.”

“Those jackasses say a lot of things. Most of them aren’t true.”

But Coulson chose to give this universe a fighting chance by not taking the serum for himself. He _chose_ to save this universe over saving his life.

“Letting this universe die is not an option.”

Not after everything they’ve been through. 

(Phil’s sacrifice. Fitz’s sacrifice)

“There’s at least four anomalies happening concurrently on this Earth, not counting the Traveler you’re hiding somewhere in this base. Telling me this universe is a deviation from a deviation, probably from a tampered timeline. Meaning this universe shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Everyone will be better off if it dies.”

His insistent, patronizing tone grates on her ears.

(she starts to wonder if Phil had ever been this infuriating, but she catches herself from venturing towards that direction—she’s not going to allow this man to poison her own memories)

“Then fix it.”

Sarge scoffs, “You want me to fix this universe _aside_ from helping you get those weapons for _my_ revenge?” He shifts in his seat, “Don’t you think you’re asking too much for someone who just wants to go back home?”

Coulson’s sense of duty never wavered, even when it could cost him his life. And implying otherwise – to his face – is one of the most offensive things someone can say about him. There’s no reason for her to think that there are any more similarities between this man and Phil Coulson, but this man is just plain unpleasant.

“Isn’t that your job—your real job?”

It’s a shot in the dark.

(she can be unpleasant too)

His face darkens. 

“Maybe,” Melinda starts, mimicking his condescending tone, “if you did your job well from the start, there wouldn’t be a need for this conversation.”

He flashes a smile that’s all teeth and no sincerity, but his shoulders have started to shake every time he breathes out and his pupils have shrunk, leaving only the blue in his eyes.

(and sometimes, a shot in the dark doesn’t miss)

“I see someone introduced you to the concept of the Bureau.” 

His fists have curled up in a tight ball and she can hear the plastic cuffs twisting as it keeps his hands restrained.

Her senses instinctively go on alert, recognizing a possible frontal attack.

But instead of exploding, Sarge swiftly schools his features, pushing the rage that’s beginning to show on his face back to wherever he hides it.

“I don’t know if you’ve realized it, but there’s no Bureau anymore.”

“Because Leviathan destroyed it.” She plainly states, “That’s why you’re itching for revenge.”

Melinda sees his mouth twitch.

“Seems like you think you got me all figured out.”

She ignores his comment, “You help us get the weapons. You help us fix this universe and you help us get home. We will kill Leviathan.”

“Helping you get those weapons, helping you fix this universe and promising to bring you home is not a guarantee that you _can_ kill him.”

“We’ve done it twice. I’m sure we can do it a third time.”

He huffs, “Yesterday, you weren’t even sure you can—”

“—yesterday, it was just me with barely a plan—”

“—kill him and now you’re so confident that you can. Now you’re _promising_ me—”

“—I’m not making this promise to _you_.” Melinda hisses.

(she’s making it to the man he looks like)

Sarge’s face twists into a sneer. “Making promises to a dead man. How sentimental.” He snorts, “Does he deserve it, though? 

He leans back and she sees that his shoulders have eased.

“You’re so adamant about saving this Earth, this timeline. Did he— did he sacrifice himself for it?”

Melinda keeps her face expressionless.

“So how did that feel? Realizing he chose to die for the greater good instead of choosing to be with you?”

She expected he’d wield his words like a weapon; expected him to be as cruel as he is astute, but she never expected how easily he can twist that metaphorical knife in her gut when he keeps looking at her like she’s a complete stranger.

The breath she takes feels like it could shred her throat, her lungs.

(her heart)

“Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that your Coulson and I are the same.”

“I’ll never make that mistake because every time I look at you, I see Phil Coulson’s nastiest traits magnified.” Melinda retorts, “Let’s just say you _pale_ in comparison and leave it at that.”

She thinks she sees him flinch. 

(maybe)

The silence expands to minutes. Festering, like an untreated wound.

Part of her that thinks she might have blown this; that she overestimated his thirst for revenge and underestimated his pride. She can only wonder what the rest of the team’s reactions are behind that mirror.

The stare Sarge is giving her feels like it can see right through her soul.

(she doesn’t know if she can salvage this)

But then—

“Are you _guaranteeing_ that you’ll be able to kill Leviathan?”

She keeps her expression blank.

“Yes.”

He shifts in his seat, “If that’s the case, then I’ll need my crew – all of them – restored.” He looks at the one-way mirror behind her for a quick second before looking back at her, “the Timebreakers know how to do that.”

“Anything else?”

“If you succeed and this timeline doesn’t collapse under its own weight, I want my crew to be welcome to stay— if they want to.”

(his crew, not him)

“That’s it?”

“If you want this timeline fixed soon, the Traveler stays _inside_ the truck.”

She thinks about Deke and his failed attempt to duct tape anyone and somehow ended up with tape at the back of his head.

“No one’s going to argue with you about that.”

Sarge makes a face. “Great.”

“Do we have a deal?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

Melinda doesn’t let out a sigh of relief – not yet – and reaches for the pocket-knife in her jacket to free Sarge’s hands. But the man lifts his still-bound wrists and twists, snapping the plastic in two.

The cuffs land on the table.

He leans forward, “Make sure you kill him, Agent May.” He whispers, intending that she’s the only who can hear him “Because if you fail, no one’s going to mourn for you.”

It’s the first time he’s ever addressed her by her name.

(and it stings, hearing it in Phil’s voice)

She doesn’t bother to respond.

“So,” He smirks as he stands up, “When do we start?”


	4. The Good, The Bad, The Dinosaur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The SHIELD team works with the TIME Bureau to contain the timeline anomalies. Jemma uncovers an unusual curveball in their mission to search for the Leviathan-killing weapons.

“What do you mean he’s not here?”

Sarge traveled with a four-member crew, and three of them are alive and accounted for. The fourth one is dead, encased in cement when they traveled through this universe and has been in the morgue for the past few days.

“Are you telling me you lost the body?” Mack demands.

Or at least, he used to be in the morgue.

“I-I’m not… I don’t know?” Agent Bowman – who’s unofficially in charge of the morgue until they find a forensic pathologist – flashes a bewildered expression, “He was in there yesterday.”

Mack seems ready to implode in frustration.

One of Sarge’s demands was the restoration of every member of his crew. While the other three had been transferred to the Chronicoms for said restoration (whatever that means), they couldn’t surrender the one in their custody because they haven’t gotten him out of the wall yet.

And now, all they have is part of the wall with no body in it.

Mack whirls around and walks out without saying a word.

“Check the CCTV footages in the morgue for the last forty-eight hours.” Melinda orders, “Tell security they’re Director’s orders.”

She doesn’t have to say it’s urgent.

“Yes, Agent May.”

Melinda doesn’t rush out, knowing there’s no need to hurry to catch up with Mack. He surprises her, however, when she finds him just outside the morgue’s doors, leaning against the wall. His eyes are closed; his hands, shoved up in his pockets.

Three weeks ago, they started receiving reports regarding ghosts in Dayton. It’s then followed up by dinosaur sightings in Omaha, crashed zeppelins in the desert, and electromagnetic fluctuations that could take down planes. Who would ever think that all of that were just a precursor to an evil, superpowered Grant Ward who wants to destroy multiple universe and the people who can help them stop it are aliens  
and a very alive Phil Coulson from another universe?

Because it’s definitely not her.

“What would Coulson do?” he asks, opening his eyes.

He sounds _exhausted_.

Saying the first few things that popped into her mind – that he’s doing the best he can, that he shouldn’t be comparing himself to Coulson – aren’t going to help. Mostly because she knows it’s a genuine question:  
what would their Phil Coulson do when everyone at SHIELD knows that they’re out of their depth and ridiculously unprepared for this kind of problem?

She leans back on the wall, “He’d have made at least ten corny jokes… today.” she answers, letting him hear her wistful tone, “He’d wonder out loud where Sarge got his jacket.”

There’s a quiet chuckle beside her.

(and, when it’s just the two of them, he’d ask her what the hell could have gone so wrong to make him end up like _that_ )

Melinda knows he’s fighting that tiny voice in his brain whispering that he’s unqualified to lead SHIELD at a time like this. Coulson had a lot of those moments when he first took over, especially when he was still grappling with the resurrection-induced hypergraphia. But this time around, it’s going to be a more difficult battle— a world without the Avengers means SHIELD is Earth’s only line of defense.

“Then, after he recognizes that he’s being asked to do the impossible, he’s going to do what you’re going to do.” She looks at him and gives him an encouraging nod, “He’ll take a deep breath and get to work, knowing that everyone at SHIELD will do their part to protect Earth.”

A weary smile tugs the corner of Mack’s lips as he looks down to the floor.

“You sure sound like you’re handling this well.”

The team was _not_ happy with the route her conversation with Sarge went. She had shrugged it off, telling them that this is what their Phil Coulson would have looked like if he was at the other side of the negotiation table.

Maybe it’s too soon for her to fully process what’s happening and for others, it looks like she has everything under control. That’s despite the fact that her insides are twisting itself, screaming for her pain to be acknowledged.

“I’m not.”

Mack stares at his shoes and doesn’t say anything else.

She recognizes his fear and his panic and she’s been through enough of these with Coulson that she’s willing to stand beside him and wait for it to subside.

Even if it’s by the entrance to the morgue.

(Phil moved – a lot – trying to burn the extra energy that came with the stress. Back in the Academy, he’d sneak in her dorm, just to pace around her room because of a final exam he was worried about; there was a time he made six loaves of bread in the middle of the night, giving half of it to her the following day; and she has lost count of the number of bent paperclips she found scattered on his desk at the Playground.

Mack, on the other hand… Mack stays absolutely still)

Finally, she hears him take a deep breath.

Melinda glances to her side and sees him straighten up and squaring his shoulders as though gearing up for another fight.

He looks at her and gives her a nod.

“Let’s get to work.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you sold me out.”

The petulant frown on Deke’s face tells her everything she needs to know about how he feels about the arrangement they made with Sarge.

“Is that why you’re hiding out in the lab?” Melinda asks. He retreated to his old quarters – still unoccupied even after a year – when they arrived in the Lighthouse. Mack ordered him to stay put, but considering he’s currently in the lab, Deke probably took that order as a mere suggestion.

“No one sold you out.” Jemma tells him and hands him a SHIELD-issued duffel bag, “We don’t have time to get your clothes so I’m giving you a few of Fitz’s shirts and requisitioned a few more pieces of clothing from SHIELD.”

“Are you sure it’s okay to get Bobo’s things—”

“—I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” Jemma smoothly answers. She then gives him a brown paper bag, “I also made you a sandwich.”

Deke blinks in surprise before taking the paper bag from her, “Thanks.” He mumbles.

While he’s busy checking the things packed for him, Jemma turns towards her, “I’m sorry.” The younger woman starts but Melinda shakes her head.

“It’s fine.”

Jemma’s supposed to accompany Deke to hand him over to Sarge but several, equally important matters came up: Sarge surrendered all the data he has on the harpoon and the Chronicoms handed her a piece of alternate universe tech.

“Yes, but I don’t think it’s wise to see him so soon. After… you know.”

She’s the only agent who won’t allow Deke to give her the slip. Mack received an urgent call from Medical, while Daisy’s in Chronicom’s ship, the SHIELD escort to Sarge’s team. Elena, on the other hand, has been tasked to bring Benson back to his house, after the latter offered his research on inter-universe travel.

“Regret agreeing with me?” she wryly asks.

“No, well— no. He just seems to have… quite the temper.”

“You sure you’re okay being left with that.” Melinda asks, jerking her head towards the middle of the table, where the tech – a gold hexagonal prism three-inch high and as large as the palm of her hand – is sitting.

Atarah says the tech is from their counterparts but a cursory glance makes her think it’s more Asgardian than human.

And every time Jemma looks at it, her face grows lax and her pupils dilate, turning her eyes black.

The scientist hesitates, “It feels like it’s calling to me.” She admits, “Like a siren’s song.”

(likening something to a siren’s song never ends well)

“I’ll be alright.” She quickly says, and tries to placate her with a soothing smile, “I’m sure I’ll figure out what this is supposed to be.”

If anyone’s _handling_ this situation well, it’s Jemma. Melinda knows she’s already efficiently sorted and catalogued the whole situation, already hyper-focused on the scientific ideas that can bring them back home as soon as possible. Her fortitude is admirable, but everyone has their limits.

Melinda mentally makes a point to check on the younger woman after bringing Deke to Sarge.

Jemma turns around and gasps, “Deke!” she groans, “You’re not supposed to eat that sandwich so soon. Or in the _lab_ , for that matter.”

“But it smells _so_ good.” Deke answers with his mouth full of bread.

Melinda motions for Deke to move out as Jemma sighs, “We’re leaving.”

“I packed an extra sandwich in his bag.” The younger woman whispers after Deke walks out of the room.

“You want me to tell him that or was that supposed to be a surprise?”

“I’ve wrapped it in enough foil for it to be a surprise good enough for two days?” she replies, making a face.

Melinda pauses and shrugs before leaving. Deke’s curious by nature; he’s going to end up seeing that sandwich when he dumps the contents of his bag in Sarge’s truck.

Deke’s waiting for her outside of the lab, the half-eaten sandwich tucked inside the brown paper bag. She briefly glances at him and walks ahead, expecting he’s going to follow her.

Sarge demanded that he and his team be given place in the Lighthouse to do their work. They were assigned a room on level 8 and two agents to guard the door.

“They aren’t going to tape me on the wall again, are they?” Deke asks as they step inside the elevator.

She ignores him and presses the button for their destination.

He shuffles nervously beside her.

“He’s not going to kill you.” She says, looking at his reflection on the elevator doors.

“It’s not— look, I already know what happened to Fitz – and I _completely_ understand why you didn’t tell me about it – and I also know he’s not my real Bobo. Or rather, he and Jemma are versions of my Bobo and Nana but they’re not _my_ Bobo and Nana.”

“It’s—”

“—but what happens afterwards? If I’m an anomaly in this timeline, and I’m the reason why weird things are happening, they’re never going to let me out of that truck. Are they going to bring me back to the future?”

If she’s going to be honest about it, she never took that into account.

But then…

“You want to stay here even when we’re gone?” she asks.

Her question startles him.

The elevator doors open and Melinda steps out, not planning to wait for Deke’s answer.

Mack offered one of the smallest meeting rooms to Sarge, one that had a wooden table that’s comfortable enough for five people and their respective laptops. It’s located at the center of this level and has glass walls that makes everyone inside the room feel like they’re in an aquarium if the blinds were left open.

“Are you sure this is okay— seeing him again after…?” Deke quietly asks.

She clenches her jaw, “He’s not Coulson.”

(not _her_ Coulson)

A beat.

“Okay.” Piercing blue eyes that remind her of Fitz’s stare back at her, “If you say so.”

The blinds are closed when they arrive, and she can’t see anything from outside. The two agents posted by the doorway acknowledges her with a quick nod as she opens the door.

There’s intel flashed on one of the walls and Sarge is standing in front of it, his back turned against the door. He’s still wearing the same outfit he wore yesterday despite being escorted to his truck to get his gear.

A shrill ring pierces her ears and it feels like a sharp razor is bouncing around her brain.

The pain is so sudden she abruptly stops walking.

And Deke bumps into her.

“Hey, ow!” Deke yelps.

“Close the door.” Sarge says and she hears the door slam behind them.

The buzzing immediately disappears.

“What was _that_?” Deke asks, both in curiosity and outrage.

Sarge turns around and glances at her. “What kind of transportation are you planning to use for this… _suicide_ mission?” he asks, disregarding Deke’s question.

“Why?”

He motions towards the wall. There’s a holographic image displayed on it, similar to the one she saw in his truck. But instead of multiple planets in various state of decay, it’s just one dead planet.

(it’s Earth; she knows what a dead Earth looks like from space)

“The Timebreakers gave the coordinates to the weapons. I’m planning your route.” He says in a formal tone, a complete turnaround from an hour ago when all that was missing from his rage was frothing in the mouth like a mad dog.

“What’s the ship got to do with it?”

“It’s at _least_ twenty-seven timeline jumps. It’s best if you don’t do the jumps while on Earth.”

She notes his usage of _you_. “Why not?”

“I don’t know, maybe some Earths won’t react too kindly to electromagnetic fluctuations.” He snipes.

She never thought there’ll come a time when she has to compartmentalize Phil Coulson. But it’s a necessary evil; she needs to make sure that however this situation will end, her memory of him (how he took care of her, how he made her laugh, how he had frustrated her to no end, how he made her feel that everything was going to be all right) will be intact.

It's an impossible task by itself considering they’d been together for so long that he’s bled through into all aspects of her life, literally and figuratively.

Maybe this is just a perverse punishment from the universe for having the gall to pretend she was healing. Or maybe it’s a reminder that she should never sanctify Phil Coulson for SHIELD— he was a good man, yes, but he also had his flaws.

A few of them embodied in this sorry version in front of her.

“Are those… crystals?” Deke’s voice intrudes her thoughts, “Is this table powered by crystals?”

Melinda sees Deke inspecting the conference table in the middle of the room, already crawling on the floor to see what’s underneath it.

It’s only then that she realizes the table is _new_.

She quickly looks around. The blinds have covered the fact that Sarge had done some redecorations in the room. The round wooden table – originally at the center – has been shoved up against the glass wall. A wide steel box sits on top of it. The sleek silver conference table, which seems large enough for at least ten people judging from the chairs underneath it, has replaced it.

It should have made the room feel cramped, but the side wall seems to be further back than she remembers, and the floor goes on for about a foot or two after the carpet ends.

(he’s done some remodeling too)

“You made the room larger.” Melinda remarks, not knowing if she should be annoyed or impressed by the somewhat reckless use of his tech on SHIELD premises.

“It’s… small.” Sarge casually answers as he goes towards the wooden table. He takes a quick glance at her, “My team’s going to need space.”

She thinks she hears affection in his tone.

Sarge opens the box and grabs something from it before turning towards Deke, “That table is powered by piezoelectric crystals. Different application from the ones you see in this universe.”

Deke scrambles to stand, excited, “My dad – when I was a kid – he smuggled in Kree plans for a huge holographic chamber powered by crystals. They scrapped that idea because, well, it’s hard to mine for the crystals they needed.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t read Kree.” She mutters, keeping an eye on Sarge, who’s walking to the other side of the room, holding… something.

“I said I can’t read Kree _numbers_.” Deke corrects.

She glances at Deke and at that moment, Melinda can clearly see the familial resemblance of Deke to both Fitz and Simmons that she can’t help but let out an amused huff.

Suddenly, there’s a thud.

Followed by a whir.

Melinda looks for the source of the sounds and blinks.

A door has appeared at the other side of the room.

“You’ll be staying in the brig—temporarily, until the quarters have been sorted out.” Sarge tells a shocked Deke as he holds the door open – that magical door that came out of nowhere – and motions him to go inside.

“H-how…?” Deke asks, staring at him wide-eyed.

“Magic.” Sarge somberly answers.

“Okay. Fine.” Deke starts, “I have a few—”

“—not in the mood to answer any of your questions.” Sarge cuts in.

She expects Deke to argue, and the expression on his face tells her that he’s going to protest, but then she sees him look at her with a silent plea for help.

“I’ll deal with it.” she says in a tone that’s gentler than she habitually uses. She understands Deke’s concerns and she knows that there are only two ways out of it: either they strike another bargain with Sarge, or Jemma finds an alternative.

It’s not much, but it’s the best she can offer him at this point.

A beat.

“Fine.”

Melinda watches as the younger man takes a deep breath and exhales before stepping through the door.

Deke disappears from view and she hears a click. And right before her eyes, the outline of the doorway fades before vanishing from sight.

“That kid knows he has very few options, right?” he says as he crosses the room

“He grew up with less.” She answers, looking at the now-bare wall, “How did you do that? The door.” she clarifies.

He shows her the object he’s carrying, a round bronze object with buttons in the middle. Melinda’s eyes narrow, as she recognizes it— two of his crew had been rudely acquainted with that object when she tried escaping his truck.

“Doorknob.” He simply answers with a tone that tells her he’s not going to bother to explain, “There’s an easier, slightly permanent way to access the truck from here, but I thought it’ll be rude if I painted your walls without permission.”

He tosses the doorknob back to the metal box before going back to the intel on the wall.

“You need anything else?” he asks, picking up his bulky tablet from the table.

“What kind of transportation are you suggesting?”

“Spaceship.” He simply answers and looks down to his tablet, “Or any kind of transportation that can travel to the far end of this galaxy. Better if it can travel across three.”

They only have one ship that’s capable of space travel and she doesn’t know how far it can go.

“We might have one in the hangar.”

Sarge looks up. “Good.”

The expression on his face has eased, relaxing his features. Their eyes meet and she sees something so recognizable that for a split second, she forgets.

_Phil._

As though he could sense what she was thinking, he brusquely looks away, “Any other concerns?” he asks.

Somehow that feels like a slap in the face.

“No.”

“Great. If you don’t mind, there are a lot of things I have to prep my team for.” Sarge says and turns his back to her.

Melinda doesn’t spare a second glance as she leaves.

Neither of them notices the trail of leaves left behind by Deke.

\- - - - - -

The ache in her chest that doesn’t subside even after leaving the meeting room. It’s a rhythmic, stabbing sensation that alternates with the beating of her heart, and she feels it echo in the fingers of her left hand.

(she knows compartmentalizing Phil will take a physical toll on her. She just didn’t think it’s going to be this soon)

She distractedly rubs her collarbone as she walks around the Lighthouse, waiting for the ache to fade and wane.

There aren’t a lot of agents loitering around; ever since they brought in Sarge and his crew, things seemed to have calmed down around the world, letting everyone focus on the little things.

Like paperwork.

She doesn’t return to the lab to check on Jemma.

Not yet.

She walks, almost aimlessly and finds herself wandering inside the field agents’ on-call lounge. It’s empty; and she expects that it’s going to stay that way for at least another hour.

The lounge has a large window that overlooks the hangar and the garage. From where she’s standing, she can see the _Zephyr_ and a group of engineers and mechanics who are busy conducting a maintenance check on the ship. On one side of it is their small fleet of quinjets and planes, while at the other is their garage. Sarge’s truck is parked separately, with at least five agents guarding it, and she makes a mental note to inform Mack about Sarge’s door tech. It’s a waste of manpower to guard that truck when Sarge has the means to access it anywhere.

“Hey.”

Melinda looks behind her and sees Elena by the doorway.

“You’re back.” She states and takes a glance at her watch.

“Took us longer than anticipated.” Elena walks towards her, “Benson’s house is a mess.”

From what she personally knows of Benson, the professor is meticulous. Just looking at his counterpart, she knows that it’s a shared trait. But then…

“His husband died.”

“I figured.” Elena joins her in front of the windows, “Was he also married back in our universe?”

“Yeah. Same guy.”

“Same guy, huh?” Elena repeats, “That’s interesting.”

She doesn’t say anything else and they stand in silence, watching the agents below them do their work.

“I thought we lost you—back in the desert.” Elena starts after a while and she can only guess what that might have felt like, “It felt like a routine extraction. Then everything disappeared right before our eyes.”

Out of everyone in Teams Bravo and Charlie, only Elena had a clear recollection of the incident: after the bar and everything in its vicinity disappeared, they were given clearance to inspect the perimeter. The team with her got caught in an invisible explosion and she got knocked out. She’s the first to came to and found everyone in the ground, unconscious.

(the _Whale_ is in ruins, and there’s no trace of either Leviathan or the forty-one undead gang members)

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.” the younger woman answers, “Grateful to be still standing.”

“Keller?” she asks. Whatever it was that made the _Whale_ vanish from their point of view had also somewhat protected Keller and everyone else from becoming Leviathan’s puppets. But he, along with the agents who were nearer the site of the so-called explosion are now in a coma.

(that’s eight agents out of commission; eight lives hanging in the balance)

“Stable.” Elena glances at her, “That’s all they can tell me.”

At this time, telling her that everything will be all right would be an empty platitude. It will be a miracle if nothing awful happens.

“How about you?” Elena asks, “How are you coping with our unwanted guest?”

Perhaps she should expect everyone who’s remotely comfortable with her to ask how she is; it’s not like her relationship with Phil was a secret. And maybe they have the right to be a little bit worried. Sarge isn’t some guy who has Phil Coulson’s face— he _is_ Phil Coulson, just from another reality (from another universe, from another whole ass dimension)

“It helps to know for certain that it’s not him.” Melinda answers truthfully. God only knows what she would have done if there had been a glimmer of hope that this man was _her_ Coulson.

(she’d believe that he can fight his way back to her, the same way that he believed she’d find her way back to him)

“I don’t think he likes himself very much.”

She flashes the younger woman an inquiring look.

“Just a feeling.” Elena explains, “Benson gives off the same energy… maybe it’s grief.”

Melinda knows a thing or two about grief.

“Maybe.” She softly agrees.

Elena sighs, “What are you doing here, anyway? Are you on call?”

“No.” _not yet_ , she wants to say because it’s a quiet day and quiet days don’t last long at SHIELD, “Just… clearing my head.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah.”

To her relief, Elena doesn’t ask any more questions. It’s then that Melinda decides that she’s had enough brooding and glances at the other agent, “You expected anywhere?”

“I’m supposed to bring Benson’s research to Simmons.”

“Good. She’s in the lab.”

* * *

Contrary to what she expected, the young scientist is studying the harpoon instead of the unknown alternate universe tech.

“I never did ask how Sarge figured out you’re the only one who can activate the harpoon.” Jemma asks when they’ve both settled in the chairs, thumbing through the files she and Daisy were looking through this morning.

“He thought it was fingerprint-activated. It glowed when I touched it again in the truck.” She answers.

“Agent May, could you…?” Jemma motions towards the harpoon.

Melinda indulges her and picks up the harpoon from the table. And just like what happened in the truck, the harpoon glows briefly, emitting a soft and subtle yellow glow that makes her skin tingle.

“Wow.” Elena murmurs.

“And that’s the only thing that hurt Ward—Leviathan?”

“Yes.”

There’s a faraway look on Jemma’s face as Melinda puts the harpoon back on the table.

The scientist approaches her and hands her a tablet, “It’s made primarily of vibranium but there are also traces of adamantium and that of an unknown metal that we have in the system.” Jemma shows her the results of the trace analysis, “It’s similar with the one from the Berserker Staff.”

“Asgardian?” Melinda asks in surprise.

“Only ten percent of it is from this Asgardian metal—well, that’s according to our analysis.”

“What does Sarge’s files say?”

“Well, his says it consists of 87.8% vibranium, 1.2% adamantium.” Jemma switches the data on the tablet, “And it’s 11% of something called Uru.”

“So, this Asgardian metal is called Uru?” Elena asks, “And our counterparts in that universe have access to it?”

“It could be. But we might have also wrongly assumed it’s Asgardian metal.”

Melinda tunes out their conversation as she looks over the intel Sarge handed over. With the resources he had, he would have known that the harpoon was enchanted even before the Chronicoms told them about it. He lied about it being fingerprint-activated.

(he was playing the cards he was dealt with. She shouldn’t be surprised with what he had done and yet…)

“The other universe’s Fitz made those weapons.” Elena muses, “Maybe he made that too.”

She looks back at the two agents and sees that the alternate earth tech is now back on top of the table.

The Chronicoms gave that thing to Jemma because they were expecting that she can open it. And seeing the scientist’s face, it’s clear she knows this. And what a burden to impose on her— being asked to prove that her bond with the love of her life could cross alternate universes, and it’ll determine whether they win this fight or not.

All of the sudden, all their phones buzz at the same time. She doesn’t need to see the message to know they’re having another team meeting within the span of four hours.

She just hopes this one doesn’t end in a similar way

* * *

It turns out they didn’t have to worry about the missing body in the morgue.

“This is Tinker, our mechanic.”

Because he’s here.

Alive.

Sarge and his team neither looks nonplussed nor stunned about his resurrection, which tells her that this wasn’t done by the Chronicoms. Even Tinker doesn’t seem to be confused that he’s alive.

(unless, of course, they forgot he was dead)

Sarge walks behind his newly restored crew as he introduces them one by one with their corresponding functions. “Jaco, munitions. Pax, research. Snowflake, communications.” He motions towards their general direction, “These are the Agents of SHIELD. We’ll be working with them for the meantime.”

Melinda subtly looks at her team, looking at everyone’s reactions. Mack’s face is inscrutable; Elena can barely hide her shock. Daisy and Jemma look unimpressed, though it may be due to the fact that – with the exception of the newly-resurrected Tinker – everyone is still in their post-apocalyptic clothes.

“Tinker will need to check that ship.” Sarge says, and it’s more directed at her than to Mack.

Before she can respond, Sarge turns to his crew, “And I’m going to need all of you to change into more appropriate… outfits.”

“Thank gods.” She hears Snowflake mutter.

Sarge surprisingly returns his attention to her, and she feels everyone doing the same. It takes her a second to figure out that he’s asking her to make a call.

(he had the tech to make any room bigger or make a door appear on any wall, and he’s been using it without abandon in front of her, yet here he is, making it seem like he needs her permission to do anything)

Mack discreetly gives her a go-ahead and she pointedly looks at Sarge’s crew

“Agents Egan and Adams will escort you to your truck.” She says and signals the two agents stationed by the door, “They can bring you back here as well.”

Sarge and Jaco exchange glances before the much taller man starts herding the rest of the crew out of the war room, leaving Sarge front and center.

There’s an awkward pause and there’s a moment where he seems to be awash with anxiety. It immediately disappears, however, when he squares his shoulders and faces them.

“Agent May wants me to fix this universe—among other things.” He folds his arms in front of him, “I’ve seen your data, matched it with mine and the good news is, it’s doable.”

“And the bad news?” Daisy sarcastically asks, not bothering to hide her hostility.

“There’s only six hours left until the dinosaurs breach this universe.”

Silence.

“What… dinosaurs?” Jemma asks.

“There’s a dinosaur that pops in and out of Omaha.” Elena explains, “Nobody knows where it goes.”

“Cool.” Daisy stares at them, probably wondering what the hell they’ve been doing the past month, “I mean, that sounds bad, but also… cool.”

Sarge continues, “Jaco and Pax can handle that problem, but they’re going to need extra firepower if the calculations are wrong. The ghosts, on the other hand, will need surgical and scientific precision to be solved. As I understand, the zeppelin’s been brought here; it’ll need to be transferred to the truck as soon as possible. Now, the flower people will need a lot of water and diplomacy—”

“—flower people?” Elena interjects, her confusion palpable. “Hippies?”

They’ve recorded all the strange incidents that had happened throughout the routes Deke took during his attempt to have a great americana road trip. There have been no reported sightings of flower people (people-shaped flowers?) anywhere, except for the new-age caravan that Deke joined.

“Humanoid-looking shrubs. They’re here in your base.”

“Excuse me?” Mack interjects, “Here, in this base?”

“You haven’t noticed any leaves on the floor anywhere?”

Sarge shrugs as Mack stares at him, partly in annoyance and partly in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. They’re a benign species with a not-so-benign environment. It’s…” There’s spark of enthusiasm in his tone and Melinda can tell that Sarge seems genuinely excited to explain the matter further. But that instant of liveliness on his face is quickly replaced by a bland smile, “…a pretty interesting timeline.”

“What about Ward? Leviathan?” Daisy asks.

“What about him?”

“Can you track him down?”

Sarge narrows his eyes. Technically, tracking down Ward/Leviathan wasn’t part of the deal. “Kid, you’re part of this big, secret organization. Can’t you do that on your own?”

“Well, what does he do for a month, then?”

“Amassing an army consisting of people possessed by the psychic shrikes that only he can control.”

Mack lets out an audible sigh and she can _hear_ his list of ‘ _Weird Shit That Happened At SHIELD While I Was Director_ ’ being mentally updated and Sarge ends up looking at her, to see what her reaction is.

Melinda glares at him.

Sarge looks back at Daisy, “The shrikes emit a frequency, that’s how we can track them down.” A contemplative expression appears on his face, “People from this universe can’t see the shrikes, but you’re not from here which means you can see them. Which also means it can’t possess you either.”

“And you don’t have any weapons that can kill those shrikes?” Jemma asks.

“I have a sword.” He says with another shrug.

She feels Daisy look at her in alarm.

(he sounds more and more like a reckless idiot with anger management issues)

Mack, thankfully, steps in. “I think we should focus on the dinosaur and the flower people first.” When no one objects, he turns towards Daisy, “Daisy, dinosaur.”

“Firepower. Right.” The younger agent mutters.

“I’ll go with her.” She says.

Mack nods his head and turns his attention back to Sarge.

“Now.” He says in exasperation. “The flower people.”

\- - - - - -

“Are you sure this is a good idea? We have less than six hours to contain – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – that dinosaur.” Daisy asks, re-adjusting her gauntlets as they walk through the garage. There’s a flurry of activity by the hangar; two quinjets are being prepped for flight and she can see agents armed to the teeth already lining up for boarding.

Ordinarily, a drive to Omaha from their location takes sixteen hours; on a quinjet, it takes three. But Sarge’s truck isn’t the usual run-off-the-mill transportation. She bets they’ll get there sooner.

“It’s faster.” She answers.

“When did we go from distrusting the doppelgänger to willingly going in his truck?”

She can sense Daisy’s apprehension, but she knows that worry will subside once the younger woman sees what she has seen.

(or maybe not. There’s a dinosaur that needs to be contained)

Up ahead, she sees that a ramp has been connected to the truck. One of the members of Sarge’s team – Pax, as he had been finally introduced – is leaning against it, arms crossed in front of his chest, languidly observing the rush around him.

When Sarge told his crew to change outfits, she assumed it’s for them to blend in. Seeing what Pax is wearing right now, she doesn’t know if this would constitute as _blending in_.

“Are you kidding me?” she hears Daisy mutter beside her.

Pax is wearing a dark red, Victorian-style waistcoat over a crisp, white shirt which he had carefully folded up to his elbows. His trousers are dark, tight and seem to have one too many belts. But what tells her that this outfit wasn’t supposed to be for fitting in is that incredible bronze pauldron on his right shoulder.

He straightens up, almost in attention, when he sees them.

Upon closer look, she sees that his waistcoat has a design: roses and thorns in an even darker shade of red that seem to have been intricately embroidered by hand. The small chain that goes from those fancy buttons to the vest pocket appears to be ornamental—so does the leather, fingerless gauntlets he’s wearing.

“You match.” She teasingly tells Daisy in a low tone.

The younger woman rolls her eyes in response.

Pax greets them with a nod before turning towards the open truck doors, “Jaco!” he calls out, “They’re here.”

As they wait, He smiles at them— a little too clumsily for her taste. She has no idea what the Chronicom’s restoration meant; considering he’s acting more self-assured than he did the last time she saw him, she assumes it involves their memories.

She wonders if he remembers being on the receiving end of her punch.

“Oh, Traveler’s chosen his bunk.” He informs her. She hears a slight Southern twang in his voice, “Once we’re in gray space, mayhaps he can join us and socialize?”

Before she can respond, they hear Jaco’s heavy footsteps.

Melinda bites back a sigh when she sees him.

He’s wearing something similar to Pax’s, but his vest is blue and the pauldron is out; instead, he has a nifty pair of goggles resting on top of his head. Unlike Pax, who left his beard looking disheveled, Jaco had trimmed his beard, neatly tying what’s left of it with a tiny blue bow. Both his forearms are covered by leather bracers.

“What’s this, steampunk cosplay?” Daisy blurts out, unable to herself.

To her surprise, Jaco laughs, and it sounds like it comes deep from his belly.

“Bureau-issued.” He answers. His voice is deep; a low timbre that can be heard at the other side of the hangar, “Expecting something else?”

Daisy shrugs beside her.

Jaco turns to her, “Agent May?” he asks, both in greeting and for confirmation.

She gives him a nod.

He bows, “Orders were to defer to Agent May; expertise is at Agent May’s disposal.” He then motions for them to enter the truck.

Daisy gives her a look before going first, walking ahead of her in the ramp.

“How long’s the drive to Omaha?” she asks, as they go further inside the truck. The truck’s interiors are brighter now, and there aren’t any boxes with its contents spilling out on the floor—she can actually _see_ the floor.

“Two-and-a-half hours.” Jaco answers, “Sarge wants to get there ASAP; said not to depend too much on calculations.”

“Cos we’re all rusty, is what.” Pax pipes up from behind her.

“If that’s the case, we’ll have to give the quinjets a fifteen-minute head start.” Melinda says.

“Noted. Air support will be needed.”

“What’s your plan?” Daisy asks when they stop before a wide worktable with a bunch of things on top of it.

Her eyes quickly scan the truck. It’s now neater, more organized, as though everyone who’s staying here finally learned how to pick up after themselves.

“Find the tear in the universe causing the excursion. Seal it.” Jaco picks up a slim, rectangular glass from the table and shows it to them, “This is a frequency scanner— all universes and everything in it emits the same unique frequency. An… address, of sorts. Will go crazy when detecting a different frequency.”

There’s a whiteboard on one side, with the names of Sarge’s crew written in his hand. There’s a tally that corresponds with their names, and whatever it is about, Snowflake is in the lead at 7.

“Wouldn’t it detect us?” Daisy points out.

“Sarge said frequencies of the Agents of SHIELD had been keyed in.”

Melinda tilts her head, her curiosity piqued, “When did he do that?”

Jaco shakes his head, “Wouldn’t know.”

He then picks a pair of goggles from the table, which looks like the one he’s wearing around his head, and hands it to her, “Wear this when the tear has been found. Will show the source of excursion— extent of tear, how deep the breach might get. Helpful with how to strategize in closing it.”

“ _How_ will we close it?” Daisy inquires.

“It’ll depend on how large that tear’s gon’ be.” Pax answers, “Usually, if the breach gets too large, Sarge steps in to get that lil’ ball of diplomacy rollin’ until we fix it.”

“Diplomacy?” Daisy asks with one brow raised.

That’s the second time she’s heard that word being thrown around.

“Well, he’ll talk his head off, hopin’ no one reports the breach or panics?” Pax clicks his tongue, “The man has what the youth call the gift of gab. It’s annoyin’ most of the time but incredibly effective when—”

Jaco loudly clears his throat, glaring at Pax, “Need to… prepare for the drive.”

Pax blinks, “Right. Sorry, Big Man.”

“Protocol _four_.”

The younger man’s eyes darts towards them. “Right, right, _right_.” he answers and grins, “No need to remind me.”

Jaco looks at them and makes a small bow, “Excuses.” He tells them and walks towards the other end of the truck, leaving them with Pax.

Before Melinda could ask what that meant, her comms crackle in her ear.

“ _Teams 1 and 2, are ready to go. Awaiting orders._ ”

* * *

“Maybe there’s an eight percent chance that we’re still in the Framework and everything that’s happening right now is just AIDA fucking with us.” Daisy offers as they walk around, trying to get any response from the frequency scanner.

The dinosaur sightings were – as it turns out – always around the vicinity of Standing Bear Lake, a park in Omaha that has trails, greenery, and… a lake. They arrived at the park at a quarter past five, giving them at least three hours before the excursion becomes a full-blown breach— _if_ the computations were correct.

“Didn’t we say that last year?”

“Well, yeah.” The younger woman answers, “Then Fitz died, and we sort-of maybe thought that wasn’t the case.”

Melinda looks at her unresponsive frequency scanner and looks around. The centerpiece of the park is a lake that used to be part of a dam. When asked about possible strategies in case the breach appears in the middle of the lake, Pax mostly nodded and answered that ‘it’s a worst-case scenario’ and left it at that.

(at that point, she started to wonder if the TIME Bureau recruited their agents based on how well they can put together a plan on the fly)

She hears Daisy sigh in frustration, “We’re getting nowhere with this.”

They were each given a frequency scanner and a pair of goggles, and their two-hour travel time was spent on the intricacies of operating them. The scanner acts like a metal detector—it gets noisier the nearer it is to the tear in the universe. Of course, having knowledge of how something works is vastly different from using it, and while Pax might think that this scanner is highly intuitive and easy to use, they can’t say the same.

But Jaco did say the tear would have a different frequency.

Daisy plants her feet on the ground and puts both her hands to her side, palms facing downward.

Good thing that they have an alternative.

“Ground vibrations feel… off.” She says and glances to her left. “It’s coming from there.”

The park has been cleared of civilians; the SHIELD team deployed in the area a few weeks ago had already informed the city government of a potential biological hazard of alien origin, and the latter surprisingly moved swiftly to clear the area. Currently, Teams 1 and 2 are scattered around the park, half of them on scanning duties, while the other half – including Team 1’s quinjet – is on alert for any civilian who decides they need a little hike, biological hazard be damned.

The younger agent leads the way, with Melinda following a step behind her.

“How else do we explain this? We’ve got aliens, we’ve got alternate universes, we’ve got trucks that are way, way bigger on the inside, with portals that can make you go from one end of this park to another...” Daisy continues, “What if once we get back home, we find out Fitz is now married to someone who looks eerily like AIDA.”

Melinda gives the younger woman an unimpressed glare.

“Okay, that sounded totally scary and maybe a little too… depressing.”

They walk further into the woods. It’s summertime and she’s expecting it to be filled with birds chirping, but the only sound she hears is that of the leaves rustling against the breeze.

“You know, when I swiped that bagel in the commissary this morning, I didn’t think I’d be hunting down a dinosaur before the day ends.” Daisy remarks, “I also didn’t think I’d watch you have weird sexual tension with an asshole version of Coulson but that _happened_.”

“You’ve spent too much time in space.” Melinda dryly replies.

“Don’t get me wrong, it was _so_ uncomfortable.” She scrunches her nose in disgust, “He’s just so… angry.”

Melinda doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to.

“Imagine being with that dude 24/7.”

She almost shudders thinking about it. Being stuck with a perpetually angry Phil Coulson who likes to push everyone’s buttons just for the kick of it sounds like a literal nightmare.

(but there’s a part of her that wants to pick that man apart and find out what the hell’s wrong with him, just to see if he can be fixed)

Daisy stops and gets down on one knee, pressing her palm on the ground.

“It’s here. Definitely.” She announces. Melinda turns on the frequency scanner, and it doesn’t take long before it starts screeching. After a second or so, half of the scanner turns purple.

(blue’s good; it means the tear isn’t too large and the excursion’s probably minor. Red is bad. And every hue in between those two colors would depend on how much blue or red it has.

this purple leans more towards red)

She switches to the TIME Bureau’s radio signal, “We found the source of the excursion. It’s… not good.”

Pax was left behind in the truck, monitoring them. Jaco’s at the other side of the lake after another dinosaur sighting, with Team 2’s quinjet assisting him from above.

_“You’re still seeing the park ‘round you, yeah?”_

Melinda looks around. There’s nothing off about the forest, at least visually. “Yes.”

_“I’m gon’ need you to put the goggles on and tell me what you see, ‘kay?”_

If the breach had already occurred, they wouldn’t need the goggles to see the other universe; it’ll already be spilling over in this park.

Melinda takes the goggles from her jacket pocket and puts it on.

“How do you look even way cooler while wearing those.” She hears Daisy mutter as she fumbles with wearing her own pair.

_“What do you see, Agent May?”_

When Pax and Jaco described this as a tear in the universe, she imagined something, well, violent. A vicious attempt of a fusion, or even an actual collision.

Not… this.

“Whoa.” Daisy says in awe.

Whatever is keeping universes separate from each other literally seems like a fabric, and what they call a tear looks like theater curtains that’s been parted open at least three feet wide.

The contrast between the two universes is magnificent—their sky is still blue; their sun not going to set for at least two more hours. The other universe, on the other hand, has an orange sky with streaks of purple. Its greenery is also thicker, sharper; like a warning that everything on their side is more dangerous.

“I see…” Melinda squints as she looks further out, “…a volcano.”

_“And the tear?”_

“Around three feet.”

 _“That sounds…workable.”_ His tone is light but not reassuring— Pax sounds like he’s lying. _“Give me a minute.”_

She switches back to SHIELD’s signal, “Team 1, do you have our position?”

_“Affirmative, Agent May.”_

“Keep on alert for civilians. Make sure no one gets near here.”

_“Copy that.”_

She sees Daisy tentatively reaching out to touch the tear, pulling her hand back at the last minute, using that ounce of self-preservation. Melinda doesn’t have to see her face to know that the younger woman is mesmerized by the view.

“What if I can close it?” She unexpectedly asks, glancing at her.

Melinda slowly nods, “You’ve done something similar before.” She replies, although that one involved a rock with a specific (and limited) size.

Daisy raises her left hand up to the level of her chest, her palm directed to the tear. A second or two afterwards, she drops her hand.

“Okay, maybe not. That’s… overwhelming.”

She hears a hiss behind her, and Pax appears right behind them, already wearing his goggles and dragging behind him two metal rods that seem to be his size. She briefly sees the White Room from afar before it blips out of sight.

He stares at the tear for a second, “That doesn’t look _too_ bad.” He murmurs and begins lugging the rods as he moves forward.

“Need any help with that?” Daisy wryly asks after him.

Pax glances at them as he drops one of the rods on one end of the tear and brings the remaining one to the other end.

“Okay, uh, jam that lil’ lady on the ground. Make sure the antenna’s right side up. Oh, and give yourself a some leeway, that tear’s growin’ and we want it closed fast.”

“That’s all?”

“Be on alert for anything that might try to cross over here, I guess.”

The rod is heavy, and the ‘antenna’ looks more like a tuning fork than anything else. It takes her and Daisy a while to put the damn thing upright but pushing it onto the ground was easier, with Daisy using her power to dig a hole for it.

Pax, on the other hand, finishes quickly. He’s standing directly in front of the tear, his full concentration on the hologram being beamed from his left hand.

(turns out those leather gauntlets aren’t ornamental after all)

Melinda looks around again. The park is empty, and the trees seem to be judging them. The silence is starting to unnerve her.

“Wait here.” Pax tells them and walks straight through the tear, disappearing into the foliage.

(what. the. hell)

“Did he just…” Daisy trails off, flabbergasted.

Melinda shrugs.

(the TIME Bureau recruits idiots)

“I mean, he did say to watch for anything that might cross over here, not the other way around.” The younger woman mutters.

Suddenly, the ground rumbles.

They look at each other.

“Wasn’t me.” Daisy says, almost defensively.

A loud roar echoes around the area just as the terrain begins to shake violently. At the corner of her eye, she sees Jaco crazily sprinting to them, carrying a big damn gun, and being chased by fast, ferocious, angry, eight-feet high…

Dinosaur _s._

_Plural._

Jaco screams at them.

“RUN.”

* * *

The vicious, pre-historic screeches clatter in her bones, putting the fear of god in every nerve in her body as she runs as fast as her legs can take her.

_“Agent May—”_

“—hold your positions.” She says through gritted teeth, crouching behind the largest rock she could find. Too many people in the same spot trying to knock out four dinosaurs is a potential bloodbath.

_“But—”_

“—Hold your positions. That’s an order.”

“…roger that.”

Her heart’s pounding against her ribcage; adrenaline pumps into her veins, heightening her senses. The air feels heavy on her lungs. It’s getting difficult to breathe.

(this is _madness_ ; she should _run_ )

Melinda pulls the goggles to her neck and gives herself a second to push down the bile rising in her throat, closing her eyes briefly before taking a deep breath. She switches her comms’ radio signal back to the TIME Bureau’s, hoping that they have a strategy for containing four large dinosaurs.

(because they might defer to her orders, but this is beyond anyone’s expertise)

_“…is Pax?”_

_“I’m here!”_

_“Where is here?”_

_“He went through the tear.”_ Daisy says.

_“Xorxus help us—”_

_“—we need the exact frequency to close this and the only place you can find that is here!”_

_“Get out of there now!”_ Jaco growls

Melinda clenches her jaw, “What’s. The. Plan.”

The _initial_ plan was for Jaco to herd the dinosaur towards the tear, making sure that their unwanted guest passes through before they start closing it.

But two hours ago, they assumed there’s only one dinosaur roaming around.

_“Knock dinosaurs out. Drag dinosaurs back to tear.”_

_“How are we going to knock them out?”_ Daisy asks, asking the same question she was about to ask. The dinosaurs are considered accidental interlopers by the two TIME Bureau agents; their protocols of engagement forbid it to terminate them, especially when they’re in this universe.

Jaco doesn’t answer.

“Jaco?”

The hair on her arms and the back of her neck prickle as her nose picks up the scent of something that smells like mint and… rancid meat.

 _Nasty_ rancid meat.

And the smell is getting stronger.

She hears a low snarl coming from behind her and a small gust of foul-smelling air accompanies it.

 _“May…?”_ She hears fear in Daisy’s tone.

(the _Jurassic Park_ movies are just a few of the staples in SHIELD’s breakroom TV whether it be in the Playground or in the Lighthouse. She’s only seen those movies in bits and pieces but if there’s one scene that sticks out in her mind, it’s the part where one of the characters say that dinosaurs can’t see you if you don’t move)

Terror creeps up her spine and she slowly – ever so slowly – reaches for the icer holstered on her thigh.

(it’s an absolute bullshit of a line – dinosaurs have eyes, for god’s sake – but she’s also not crazy enough to _disprove_ it by grabbing her icer)

 _“Agent May, don’t make any noise.”_ Pax’s voice is steady, and rings clearly in her ear, _“But I’m gon’ need you to run towards the open space right in front of you, ‘kay?”_

She bites her tongue. It’s not like she has any choice in the matter.

_“On the count of three. One…”_

Her muscles tense as she prepares herself, her blood pounding so loudly in her ears she’s afraid she might not hear Pax count to three.

_“…two…”_

She makes the mistake of glancing to her left.

(a pair of eyes look at her with murderous intent and she sees lots of feathers and scales and teeth)

_“…three!”_

Melinda bolts, praying that her left knee wouldn’t give out on her at this moment. The dinosaur roars behind her and she feels it has enough force to strip the leather off her jacket.

(her brain is screaming to run _faster_ )

But then, she stumbles.

And falls.

_Oh fuck._

But instead of soil and grass, she falls on something… soft.

Footsteps hurry towards her direction and she feels herself getting helped up to her feet.

“Are you okay? Did it bite you?”

She looks up and sees Deke holding her arm.

Confusion mixes with her adrenaline.

“How the hell…?” she trails off and frantically looks around. She’s within the drab gray walls of the White Room— inside Sarge’s truck, and she landed on a large cushion.

Deke lets go of her and shows her a stick with a red button on top of it, “Pax opened a portal and I closed it.” he says with a grin.

(she wasn’t consulted with allowing Deke to join in this… operation, but she’s had the feeling this kind of mission requires a lot of working parts)

Behind him, she sees an aerial shot of the park behind him. Seven dots move around the greenery, with four dots moving around much faster than the three. By the looks of it, it’s a video recording in real time.

(it’s from Team 2’s quinjet)

 _“May, where are you?”_ Daisy asks, panic and worry evident in her voice.

“In the truck.” She breathlessly answers, still pumped up with adrenaline and still confused as fuck.

_“Thank god.”_

“What’s the situation?”

_“Bad. Jaco’s bait but they’re moving too fast for me to quake them.”_

Melinda shakes her hand to get rid of her jitters before unholstering her icer.

“Open a portal and let me out.”

“I… I don’t open them. Pax does.”

“Pax.” No answer. “Jaco.” She adds, “Somebody open a portal _now_.” She orders.

There’s a split second where she and Deke just stare at each other, waiting for a response. Then, a green circular light flashes on her right, and a narrow opening appears. She sees the sky and the trees and Pax’s back.

“Don’t get eaten!” Deke says as she jumps out of the truck.

Melinda arrives just in time to see Jaco spewing fire from his mouth like some goddamn dragon.

This day is one for the books.

\- - - - -

“These are _not_ velociraptors.” Pax motions behind him, “These are deinonychuses.”

“Does it really matter?” Daisy retorts. The younger woman has already whipped out her phone to take photos and videos of the unconscious dinosaurs, which look more like giant scary birds than reptiles, “If we got killed, they’d say we got killed by dinosaurs.”

It took them almost an hour, but they managed to successfully knock out all the dinosaurs without losing a limb. But that doesn’t mean that they came out of it unscathed. There are large scrapes on her hand and bruises on her shoulder from falling too many times inside the truck. Daisy’s eyes are alert, but she also looks exhausted. The two TIME Bureau agents look worse—there’s a gash on Pax’s forehead and Jaco got knocked out before they managed to bring down the last dinosaur.

All their clothes are also ruined, one way or another.

“My expectation was a large ol’ prehistoric turkey, not a gorram ostrich!”

“At least they weren’t pterodactyls.”

“ _Those_ aren’t dinosaurs.”

While the two younger agents bicker, Jaco has gotten up to his feet and has started hauling a dinosaur back to the tear, pulling it seemingly without any effort.

“Pax.” He grunts, calling out for his teammate.

The younger man huffs and hurries to him to help.

It takes them another hour to clear the park and to seal the tear. A lucky few from both Teams 1 and 2 were able to take some pictures and videos of the last dinosaur being dragged back to its universe by Pax.

(she’s going to need a drink when they get back to base)

They get back to the truck through a portal to the White Room, with Pax opening it right in the middle of the park without a care in the world.

Deke welcomes them with a relieved smile.

“I’m glad we’re not going to get overrun by dino world.” He says as the portal closes behind Jaco, “I think this calls for a celebration, am I right?”

“What does Traveler have in mind?” Jaco asks and unceremoniously drops the tear-closing rods on the floor.

“What about some boba?”

There’s a bout of silence.

“Really.” Daisy says, “After everything we’ve been through, you want boba?”

“What’s a boba?” Pax asks, intrigued.

“It’s tea.” Daisy wrinkles her nose.

“It’s _milk_ tea.” Deke explains, “It’s tea with milk, it’s cold, they have chewy black pearls at the bottom, you can get it in different flavors— it’s uh, _delicious_.”

Pax and Jaco look at each other and Jaco motions for him to decide on it.

“Let’s have a taste of this boba.” Pax finally says.

“Yes!” Deke excitedly pumps his hand in the air and turns towards Daisy, looking at her expectantly.

Daisy rolls her eyes, “Fine. Boba.” She looks pointedly at Deke, “Who’s paying?”

“Traveler stays here.” Jaco reminds them before leaving.

Deke opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Sarge has our currency.” Pax frowns.

Daisy shoves her hands in her pocket, “Don’t look at me, I arrived from space yesterday.”

“I don’t want boba.” Melinda flatly tells him when he looks at her.

Deke groans, “Ugh, fine. I’ll pay for it.” He takes his wallet from his pocket and hands a few bills to Daisy, who raises a brow after counting the amount.

“Whoa, big money.”

“Is it from drugs?” She asks because somebody needs to say it.

“It is _not_.” Deke rebuts, “It’s from the jobs I’ve done for the good people in my motorcycle group.”

“You mean, the biker gang that tried to kill you?” Melinda dryly points out.

Pax looks at them in confusion, “The leather-wearin’ zombies followin’ Leviathan around?”

She bites back an annoyed sigh, “Get your boba... wherever. We need to get back to the Lighthouse soon.” She glances at Daisy and with a single look, tells her that she’s in charge of the two, before leaving the room.

Melinda kneads her shoulder. Pax kept sending her back to the White Room to keep her out of harm’s way and while the cushion had softened the impact of her landing, she fell on that thing too many times to count.

She sees Jaco sitting on one of the three couches in the ‘real’ part of the truck, wearing a respirator. There are grass stains all over his white shirt, which also has a rip on chest.

He acknowledges her with a nod as she picks a different couch to sit on.

As they wait for Deke, Daisy and Pax to have their fill of boba, Melinda contemplates about asking questions. Compared to before, the state of the truck is massively different now, and with everything so organized, she’s finally noticed the ubiquitous presence of clocks that have all stopped working.

“Questions?” Jaco asks through his respirator, as if he can hear her thoughts.

The truth is, she has _too_ many questions – are you human, why do you speak like that, how strong are you, how is your teammate alive after getting stuck in a wall, what is this truck, why are you dressed like that, what is protocol four, how do TIME Bureau agents live, and maybe a hundred more regarding Sarge – and she wants all of them answered.

(she’s not going to get answers to all her questions, but she should at least try to sate her curiosity)

So, she asks a simple one.

“The clocks.” She jerks her head to the three broken ones beside her, “They’ve all stopped.”

He takes off his mask, “This truck is old. Retired by the Bureau maybe two generations ago.” Jaco puts away his respirator, “All the clocks might have come from other trucks.”

“Why have they all stopped?”

“The clocks are special. Attuned with the Library. Any Bureau transportation will have a clock embedded in it, allows travel in gray space. Also access to the Library and some of its powers. All clocks have stopped because the Library is inaccessible—can still travel gray space but can’t travel to Library.”

Melinda quickly deduces that the Library is what they call the their headquarters.

He stands up and pulls something from his vest pocket— a gold pocket watch on a chain, “This tells fellow Bureau agents who one is.” He shows it off before pressing the top button. The whole thing glows an otherworldly blue, “Agents can pick any design, any style after training. Pax’s is on the gauntlets.”

The watch has also stopped.

“No more Bureau.” Jaco tells her in a morose tone.

She sees a wisp of sadness on his face, and he turns away in embarrassment.

“How long have you been working with Sarge?” she asks.

He glances at her, “Multiverse works in mysterious ways. Could be five years.” He adds with a wry smile, “Could be a hundred.”

She’s about to ask another question when Jaco puts up a hand and shakes his head, “One cannot answer any other questions Agent May has about Sarge. Protocol Four forbids it.”

“What’s Protocol Four?” she sees him squirm a little, “You don’t have to answer.” She adds.

The considering look Jaco gives her lasts for a few seconds before he exhales, “Protocol Four forbids Bureau agents to interact with one’s alternates, family and friends, including knowledge of lives. One cannot answer questions about Sarge. Applies other way around too.”

“Why?”

“For protection.”

Melinda tilts her head to the side, “Whose protection?”

“Protects Agents of SHIELD from Sarge.”

Before she can ask another question, Pax bursts out of the utility closet that leads to the White Room. He’s buzzing in excitement and the look on his face is bordering on hysteria.

“Jaco!” he rushes towards the much taller man, “I swear to our mighty creator, this is the best gorram drink I’ve ever tasted.” He says and takes a plastic container with a straw sticking out from a large bag and hands it to Jaco. “I’m gon’ need to put Sarge’s and Snow’s in the kitchen freezer.” He says, before hurrying towards another utility closet and going through it.

Daisy plops down beside her, holding her own container and a cup, “I think Deke might have created a monster.” She says and hands her what she thinks is a green tea latté, “They didn’t have normal tea.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

Daisy shrugs, “Deke’s money.”

“And _you’re_ welcome.” Deke cheerfully shouts from the White Room, “Tell me when I can get out of here, alright? I wanna get back to my bunk.” He adds before the closet doors close.

Melinda watches as Jaco gets a taste of boba tea for the first time and sees him nod appreciatively.

“Truck leaves soon.” He tells them, still bobbing his head before turning around to leave.

Daisy leans against her, “This is simultaneously like, the worst and best mission ever and I’m glad it’s with you.”

She lets out an amused snort and takes a sip of her latté, which is a little too watery for her taste, “Get some rest.”

The younger woman rests her head on her shoulder, “Maybe when debrief is over.”

A few minutes later, they hear the engine start and the truck begins to shake.

Finally.

* * *

Everyone back at the Lighthouse had a different kind of adventure, one that involved attempted abductions and forced marriages. It’s something she’s relieved to have missed, judging from the volume of leaves they’re still sweeping off the floor when they returned.

“Turns out Sarge is every bit of a silver tongue as our Coulson,” Elena tells them when they arrived in the Director’s office, “And that Flower People aren’t too benign when they find you attractive.” She adds, looking at Mack with a playful smile.

Mack’s ears turn red.

The debrief is kept short. Everyone was exhausted after this long day.

Daisy gives her a preoccupied hug before leaving Mack’s office and shuffling back to her quarters. Melinda makes a detour to the commissary, grabs an apple and goes back to her own quarters to brew herself a pot of tea.

(she’s reserving that drink for the weekend)

After a light dinner and hot bath, Melinda goes to sleep.

She dozes off the minute her head hits the pillows.

Dreams rarely come to her and tonight is no different. Her mind is content with flooding her in darkness as it sorts out every piece of information that she came across with from the moment she opened her eyes this morning until—

– a loud banging on the door jerks her awake.

Melinda bolts up to a sitting position, every fiber of her being on alert for danger.

(her mind screams ‘dinosaurs’ but she knows it’s not possible… at least, she thinks dinosaurs wouldn’t knock)

After quickly realizing it’s a false alarm, she looks at the clock and inwardly groans.

Someone bangs on the door again.

She sighs in annoyance and makes her way to the door, intending to scare off the person who thought it’s a _great_ idea to wake someone up at three in the morning.

The door swings open and Daisy’s bleary face greets her a good morning.

“Simmons wants us in Mack’s office.” She yawns, her voice still rough with sleep, “You weren’t answering your phone.”

Melinda doesn’t bother to change out of her clothes, considering Daisy’s merely threw a sweater over her pajamas. She does the same, wearing a jacket over her old SHIELD communications shirt before they troop to Mack’s office.

(it used to be Phil’s but now its hers)

Mack, Elena, and Jemma were already there when they arrived. And everyone is still in their sleepwear, looking like they’d rather be back in their respective beds.

Except for Jemma.

“I have good news and bad news.” She announces when everyone’s comfortably seated.

“How can this be good news if we’re here at 3 am?” Daisy mumbles under her breath.

“The good news is, I figured out what the alternate universe artifact the Chronicoms handed over to SHIELD is.” She continues, ignoring Daisy’s comment. Melinda wonders if Jemma had slept since they arrived from space; wonders _when_ the last time the scientist had slept.

She shows them the artifact – the same one from this afternoon – and puts it on Mack’s desk.

“It’s a key. We’ll need it – all of it – to get to the weapons.”

“All of it?” Elena asks.

“Yes, that’s… that’s the bad news.” She trails off. Her lower lip trembles as she smiles at them and Melinda thinks whatever this news is, it won’t be bad; it’s going to be _terrible_.

“Maybe I’ll just show you.”

The scientist presses her hand on the artifact.

A beam of light escapes it and suddenly, a life-sized holographic image of Fitz – someone who looks like Fitz – appears at the center of the room.

“Holy shit.” Daisy exclaims beside her.

It’s enough to shake away what’s left of sleep in her system.

_“If thou is in possession of this key,  
and by luck or through wit finds this message,  
then let it be known that it only responds  
to one and one alone. If thou insists…” _

This Fitz is wearing a dark cloak with fur lining in by the neck collar. The cloak looks like it’s seen better days, and it sags heavily on his worryingly gaunt frame. His curls are long and messy, and the thick beard he’s sporting hides his hollow cheeks.

_“…to get the knowledge this key might possess,  
a warning: it’s not what thou thinks it is.” _

The hologram is mutedly colored, she can see a bit of gold peeking through cloak, and maybe… a hilt of a sword?

_“If by chance this key is in the right hands  
then thou is hoping to prevent thine demise.  
I apologize for our failure  
to kill the monster thou’s about to face.” _

He seems to be in a cave, or somewhere underground judging from the stone formations behind him.

_“Leviathan and his army of shrikes  
can be killed by the weapons I have forged.  
But the snakes have always been in the nest  
and behooved me to enchant the weapons  
to prevent them from falling on wrong hands.” _

Melinda subtly looks around as the Fitz hologram begins to pace. Everyone’s wide awake.

_“Then Olympus fell; then Sector Eight too.  
And so, I took this thought one step further:  
I locked these weapons, threw away the keys  
And hope the Sojourners finds the wielders._

_To win this battle, thou needs its wielders:  
Lord Captain Coulson, Lieutenant Johnson,  
Commander May, and Alchemist Simmons.” _

Dread settles at the pit of her stomach when she hears their names.

Fitz takes in a shaky breath

_“Thou should not depend on the Sojourners,  
for they appear friendly and helpful,  
yet they say all of this will happen again.” _

The recorder trembles and he pauses, looking up when dust and debris fall around him.

_“They think it’s something that might appease me.  
But it made me realize it’s their guilt;  
they created him then made it far worse.” _

He runs his fingers through his hair and he looks… defeated.

_“We made a massive mistake. All of us.  
And we paid for it, at such a large cost.  
Time was not on our side; it never was.  
We had been foolish to think otherwise._

_The hope; that faith that there’s another you,_  
in another earth that can kill this beast  
once and for all… it’s what keeps me fighting.”

His surroundings shake more violently this time and Fitz crouches, putting his face closer to whatever it is that’s recording him. His eyes shine with tears just as a soft smile appears on his face.

_“I know I shall see you again my love.”_

Melinda’s breath catches in her throat.

_“I know I shall see all of you again.”_

The hologram disappears.

Jemma stares stonily at them.

No one dares to speak.

She’s made her assumptions about how the weapons-retrieval operation would go— a SHIELD team that includes her and Daisy, maybe Elena; a jump to another universe, with the operation taking a week or two. She knew there will curveballs, expected them even.

But this?

Melinda closes her eyes, feeling a headache that’s about to start.

She’s going to need that drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took too long to write and I'm blaming the dinosaurs for it (and also alt!Fitz's pseudo iambic pentameter dialogue :D)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Comments are very much appreciated <3


	5. What Happens Here . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The SHIELD Team prepares for alternate universe travel. May and Sarge find themselves in a spiky situation.

As someone who’s been a field agent for a long time, waking up with a massive headache during a mission isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If nothing smells bad, it usually means she’s in a safehouse, recovering from a nasty blow to the head.

Waking up with a massive headache inside a cold, dim cell that smells like a sewer? Not necessarily a bad thing either. Maybe she’s in a jail cell in some backwards hellhole of a country; maybe she’s in an honest-to-god sewer, where Phil had dragged her to safety.

But waking up with a massive headache inside a cold, dim cell that smells like a sewer with her hands tied above her head? Always a bad thing. She could be in some Russian oligarch’s murder basement; or in a freezing meat processing plant, about to be turned into really questionable sausages.

( _“On the bright side, we woke up. We have at least some time to figure out how to get out of here before we get sliced up and turned into jerky or, I don’t know, sausages? Then, maybe afterwards, we could also have the Mayor’s office shut this place down because killing people in an actual meat factory is pretty unhygienic.”_

 _“Shut up, Phil.”_ )

Melinda groans as she opens her eyes, trying to blink away her headache.

A bit of light spills from above. As her eyes adjust, she quickly realizes two things: first, she’s not inside an ordinary cell; the whole area seems cavernous to be one, and the air feels different. It has a chilly bite to it, but it also feels too heavy in her lungs.

The second thing she realizes is that Phil Coulson’s face is just a few inches away from hers. And he’s near enough that she can feel the warmth of his skin and hear his ragged exhales.

(he’s real)

Melinda feels her heart stop, and for a moment, time stands still.

“Are you… awake?” he slowly asks. He’s similarly situated as she is, mirroring her position with his hands tied above his head and dangling from the ceiling and looking as undignified as she is.

(something also feels… off. She can’t figure out what it is, exactly)

“Phil?” she whispers in confusion. Her brain still feels like mush and the thundering pain her head isn’t helping.

He recoils.

No, not Phil—Sarge.

(sometimes, she forgets he’s gone)

The stink of the room – which can only be described as a mix of rotting food, a barely-cleaned public toilet and patchouli – rises to her nose and a wave of nausea hits her. She squeezes her eyes shut when she feels her stomach revolting, pushing the last meal she ate up her throat.

“Fuck.” She mutters, breathing through her mouth.

“Take a deep breath and hold it for ten seconds.” He instructs with a wary tone, probably realizing that he’ll get vomited on if he doesn’t help, “Then push your tongue on the roof of your mouth before you exhale.”

She’s not confident it’ll work, but she does it anyway.

As she adapts to the smell, her stomach begins to calm down. She then starts to piece together the incidents prior to waking up, to figure out just how fucked they are.

( _Cupcakes… Space… Please don’t let this be another meat factory incident… People arguing… A crash…_ )

_Space._

They’re in space.

Her eyes fly open and she worriedly looks around.

The cell is empty except for them.

She looks at Sarge.

“Where the _hell_ are we?” she demands, “And where the _hell_ are Daisy and Jemma?”

_**Forty-Eight Earth Hours Earlier…  
Location: SHIELD Base, codenamed “Lighthouse”, Earth** _

For someone who learns that they need to be physically present in a mission they never wanted to participate in – at four in the morning, no less – Sarge seems calm.

(to say that everyone in the room was waiting for him to throw a tantrum is an understatement)

“That’s quite a plot twist.” He says, slowly, still staring at the now-empty space at the center of Mack’s office, his arms tightly folded in front of his chest.

He seems to be taking it well.

(he’s wearing a different set of clothes. It’s still a dark ensemble; definitely cleaner, but nothing near Pax’s or Jaco’s outfits)

Sarge looks at her with a purposefully blank expression, “Tinker and I will need to work on the ship the whole day. No one can come in or out except for my team. Then we…” he glances at Daisy and Jemma before looking back at her, “…can leave tomorrow before sunset.”

A little _too_ well.

“You don’t call the shots.” Daisy says with a hint of anger in her tone, briskly gesturing to Mack who’s seated behind his desk, “ _Director_ Mackenzie does.”

“Do you want to get those weapons or not?”

“Whatever happened to giving your expertise and deferring to orders?” Daisy retorts.

“I _am_ giving my expertise.”

“And your orders.”

He tilts his head to the side and Melinda immediately knows that he just found someone whose temper he can provoke.

“If you consider that an order, I’m curious to see how you react to an _actual_ order.”

“You think you’re being funny—”

“—I’m not, I’m assessing the current situation—”

“— _assessing_ , that’s rich—”

She exchanges glances with Mack and its clear that this will get ugly if no one intervenes.

(she’s not the person for it; it’ll be easy for her to get sucked into this argument)

“—Daisy,” Mack starts, attempting to mediate, “That’s en—”

Sarge and Daisy’s voices get increasingly louder.

“—it’s looking like you’re the type who’d go rogue—”

“—you can’t waltz in here, and act like—”

“—and you _will_ be a liability to this mission—”

“—me, a liability? Maybe you should look at yourself—”

“—maybe _you_ should take your daddy issues elsewhere and let someone more level-headed do the talking.”

The sharp glance she throws at Sarge’s direction doesn’t go unnoticed. He didn’t lie when he said he was doing an assessment; now she knows that his words had been deliberate, laced with enough venom to stun Daisy to silence.

(yesterday was a glimpse of a Coulson at the other side of the negotiation table; today is a glimpse of a Coulson hell-bent on antagonizing everyone who had no choice but to work with him)

“That’s _enough_.” Mack says with sufficient force that surprises even her. For a second, she sees the frustration on his face, and she doesn’t blame him. It’s four in the fucking morning.

He waits for Daisy and Sarge to settle down before resuming, “I’m monitoring the work you’ll be doing on the _Zephyr_.” He tells Sarge and when the latter opens his mouth to protest, Mack cuts him off, “Aside from being SHIELD property, I know that ship inside-out and I’ll be damned if I send three of my best agents to use it without seeing what kind of tradeoffs you make with your upgrades.”

Melinda takes a second to breathe as the tension in the Director’s office begins to simmer.

Sarge stares at him, obviously unhappy with the decision.

“Is that all?” he huffs.

When Mack doesn’t reply, he takes it as permission to leave. As he stands up, he looks at her again, “You three…” he motions towards Daisy, who’s glowering at him, and Jemma, “… will need gear and a crash course for inter-universe travel, regardless. Snow’s ready to help you out— if you want.”

Before leaving with the agents posted outside the office, he turns towards Mack, “ _Director_ Mackenzie, if you’re planning on staying the entire day, bring at least a week’s worth of provisions. Tinker doesn’t like sharing his food.”

The door slams shut and everyone heaves a sigh of relief.

Daisy sinks further on the couch, covering her eyes with her right hand. At her side is Jemma, who’s staring at the ceiling.

“Did he really say a _week’s_ worth of provisions? Or did I hear that wrong?” Elena asks, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

(it’s too goddamn early for this)

“You heard him correctly.” She answers

Mack shakes his head and rubs his temple, “Let’s regroup at 0700.” He pushes his chair back, “Get some rest.”

Daisy wordlessly bolts out of the room and instinct prompts her to follow the younger woman out.

The hallways are still deserted at this time and Melinda easily catches up to her when she turns the corner.

“I thought talking to him will be different, you know?” Daisy says when she senses her presence, “Especially after seeing what happened yesterday.”

She turns around, allowing Melinda to see how upset she is, “But being in the same room with him, seeing his reaction to Shakespeare Fitz is…” she trails off, and stares at the floor before looking at her. “This is just too… fucked up.”

Daisy hastily brushes away the tear that falls on her face, “Or… I don’t know. Maybe this is just the absurdity of it all finally catching up on me at four in the morning.”

Melinda reaches for her and Daisy walks into her arms, burying her face on her shoulder.

They spent weeks together after Coulson’s death, trying to figure out how to manage the void that came with their loss. She brought Daisy to see her mom in Philadelphia, then took her to Phoenix to be finally (and properly) introduced to her dad.

(they only visited for a few days; she didn’t want to burden either of her parents with their grief)

It helped, somewhat. And while they coped similarly – going back to work – Daisy took it one step further and went to space.

But as her mother said, having time to mourn is a privilege granted to people leading ordinary lives and as long as they’re in SHIELD, it’s a privilege they won’t have.

It doesn’t matter if she’s an alternate universe version of her mother; Lian May is right.

(as always)

Melinda gently pats the younger woman’s back as she sniffles.

“How are _you_?” Daisy pulls back from her, “I mean, how are you, really?”

“I don’t know.” She answers truthfully. “He’s not Coulson.” She offers, like it’s a nugget of wisdom that only she knows.

(he isn’t Coulson, her mind repeats, even when she sees glimpses of him in that man)

“When I wondered what it might be like, living with that dude 24/7, I didn’t mean it for real.”

“I know.”

Daisy rubs her face with her left hand, “Ugh, I could really use some coffee right now.” She says, “Or some tea.”

Melinda raises a brow, “When did you start drinking tea?”

“Ever since the twilight zone version of my father figure arrived here?”

She rolls her eyes in amusement and gestures for her to start moving towards her quarters.

“I’m going to boil water. You make your own.”

* * *

Daisy manages to fall asleep on the couch seconds after she plugs in the electric kettle.

Melinda lets her be, a ghost of a smile appearing on her face as she drapes a blanket over Daisy’s sleeping form before sitting down in her tiny kitchen.

The tea does little to calm her buzzing nerves. Too many things are happening at the same time while they’re being bombarded with so much information from dubious sources.

(and who are they supposed to believe? Aliens called by three different names, who aren’t trusted by the alternate versions of the people they love? The very same aliens who tell them that the alternate versions of the people they love can help them?)

She lets out a deep breath before taking another sip of her tea.

Phil’s gone. She’s accepted that truth— she _accepts_ that truth every day. All she ever wants is to heal; for heart to finally figure out how to accommodate the piece of Coulson that got left behind, and to finally stop feeling like something’s amiss every single day. She’s even reached out to her friends and to her loved ones. Not once did she think it’ll be easy, but goddamn it, she’d been _working_ towards it.

Then another version of him arrives at the most inopportune time because the universe isn’t done with fucking her over.

Objectively speaking, they need to stop this eviler superpowered Grant Ward from destroying this universe and this timeline, no matter what it takes.

And he can only be stopped by them.

With _him_.

Subjectively speaking, this mission will probably break her, once and for all.

(and he won’t be there to catch her)

The mere thought of it makes her chest tighten. Her eyes burn with tears which she quickly wipes away. Her mind scrambles to focus on the _now_ because while there’s a time to cry over Phil Coulson, today (or any day soon) isn’t it.

Melinda counts to five and exhales.

Daisy doesn’t stir from the couch, her soft snores punctuating the otherwise quiet room.

She’s going to need to be mindful about her reactions to Sarge whenever Daisy’s around; it will undoubtedly affect the way the younger woman will deal with him and the last thing this mission needs is even more hostility.

She takes another sip of her tea and lets the silence soothe her.

\- - - - - -

_  
**Forty-Four Earth Hours Earlier…  
Location: SHIELD Base, codenamed “Lighthouse”, Earth**  
_

“I know this isn’t the best time to worry about my note-taking abilities, but…” Daisy yawns and shakes her head, “…if this is going to end up as a life or death thing, I might end up dead first.”

Melinda ignores the morbid joke as she, Daisy and Jemma head to the meeting room that currently houses the TIME Bureau agents. Aside from what Sarge said – that they’ll need gear and a crash course on inter-universe travel – they have no idea what to expect.

“Don’t worry.” Jemma says with utter seriousness and shows them her notepad and pen, “I’ll take notes for _all_ of us.”

Their regroup at 0700 turned into a breakfast meeting with Mack handing out their assignments as they ate. They’re to gather as much intel as they can and report them at the end of the day. Elena has a similar assignment, but with Benson, who was given limited, temporary clearance to be able to work on his research with the other SHIELD scientists.

Snowflake is outside the meeting room, chatting up the agents posted by the doorway. She’s wearing something similar to Jaco’s outfit but instead of a vest, she’s wearing leather suspenders and gray woolen trousers.

Jemma sighs beside her.

“You should have seen what the other guys were wearing yesterday.” Daisy says.

Snowflake sees them approaching and gives them a brief, awkward wave.

“No— I mean, it looks nice, but I just don’t understand how it’s _practical_.” Jemma murmurs.

“I didn’t think you’d be here this early.” Snowflake greets when they reach her position. She’s has the same accent prior to her restoration, “Agent May?” she asks with a smile.

She curtly nods.

“Agent Johnson?” she looks to Daisy, who also nods her head.

Snowflake glances at Jemma, “It’s nice to see you again, Agent Simmons.” She says and then motions towards the door, “Shall we…?”

The two SHIELD agents guarding the door greets them a good morning. Snowflake herds them inside the meeting room, swiftly shutting the door behind her.

Daisy looks around in confusion, “What’s…” she trails off, not quite figuring out what’s different.

“They made it bigger.” Jemma informs her.

“Huh.”

A quick scan around tells her that they’ve done more remodeling— the ceiling seems higher and they’ve added doors at opposite ends of the room, both of which are open, connected by a heavy electric wire on the floor.

“Sarge wasn’t too specific with the kind of crash course on inter-universe travel you’ll need.” Snowflake starts, walking in front of them, “He’s given the initial assessment for your mission. I have an idea what you might need to know, you’ll get the basics, of course, but there might be things I might miss, considering this mission is… highly unusual, even for Bureau standards.”

Snowflake sounds completely normal, unlike Pax, whose turns of phrase either sound like a word salad or just plain weird.

“Does that mean I can ask _any_ questions?” Jemma asks, her tone perking up.

“Within reason.” Snowflake replies, nodding her head, “Nothing about Sarge.”

Daisy makes a face, “Why?”

“Bureau protocols.” Snowflake simply answers and gestures to the door on their right, “Follow me, please. And watch your step.”

It doesn’t surprise her that the door leads to the White Room. It had been the most formal room in the truck, and it felt like it was a strategy room of sorts. What does surprise her is the fact that it’s not as empty as it was the day before— they’ve brought in the largest, beat-up sofa from the ‘real’ part of the truck, an armchair from god-knows-where and dumped both at the center, placing an irregularly-shaped vomit-green carpet underneath it.

There’s a wide coffee table in front of the couch. There are two food trays on top of it: one filled with cupcakes while the other one has a loaf of bread and a small bottle of marmalade.

(she expected those uncomfortable steel chairs and a white board stand, not an old lady’s sitting room)

“Help yourself with the food it’s—” Snowflake sighs and walks towards the sofa, picking up a piece of clothing carelessly tossed on top of it, “—freshly baked by Jaco.”

“Make yourselves comfortable.” She tells them with a hint of annoyance before leaving the room and closing the door.

She and Daisy look at each other before taking a seat. Jemma doesn’t seem to notice, obviously captivated by the large, mostly empty space around them.

“I know we went through some sort of portal but… where are we, exactly?” Jemma begins walking around, gingerly touching the gray walls of the White Room.

“Sarge’s truck?” Daisy answers.

Jemma looks at them, not quite believing what she just heard.

“It’s a room within the truck? If you go right through that door,” Daisy points to where Snowflake made her exit, “You’d end up in the _actual_ truck. It’s even crazier if you come in from there because this room? Is hidden inside a janitor’s closet.”

Melinda remembers the dumbfounded look on Daisy’s face when Pax brought her here. She’d been initially unimpressed by the interiors of the truck – the ordinariness was probably intentional, thinking about it – and had been reluctant to follow Pax through the utility closet until she gently nudged her towards it.

(she knew she should have taken a picture of Daisy’s reaction)

“But…” Jemma’s brows knit together, trying to figure out the scientific explanation for this, “How?”

“Something about… pocket dimensions?”

She watches as the contemplative expression on Jemma’s face slowly becomes that of enlightenment. Daisy, who’s also watching Jemma, grabs a cupcake from the tray and splits it in two, handing one half to her.

“Of course.” she turns to them, excitement sparkling in her eyes, “It’s like the TARDIS.”

“TARDIS? Doctor Who?” Daisy clarifies, chewing on the cupcake.

Before Jemma can answer, the door swings opens and Snowflake returns, followed by Pax, who looks like he just rolled out of bed.

“This truck is dimensionally transcendental.” Jemma announces, her eyes following the two TIME Bureau agents’ every move, “This room – and what you did to the meeting room – it’s all possible because of transdimensional engineering.”

(Melinda does not know what that means)

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.” Pax answers, and drops himself down in the armchair, “If we get down to the science of it…” he trails off when he sees Snowflake glaring at him, “…it might take us a year.”

He takes a piece of bread from the tray and lazily smiles at Snowflake before he starts eating it. He had an ugly gash on his forehead yesterday. It’s gone now.

“Do you heal that fast or is that concealer?” Daisy asks, eyeing his forehead.

“Fast healer.” Pax answers, “Perks of being in the Bureau.”

He crams the bread into his mouth, clumsily wiping off the crumbs that fall on his Victorian-style nightshirt.

“Nice blouse.” Daisy remarks.

“Why, thank you, ma’am but it ain’t mine.” Pax replies, mouth full of bread, “Found it in the truck.”

Maybe she should be grateful that the man bothered to put on a pair of pants.

Snowflake clears her throat, “Don’t mind Pax, he’s… observing.” She says and wanly smiles at Jemma, “Please, Agent Simmons, take a seat.”

She had been genuinely cheerful a while ago but now she’s just acting like it. It’s obviously because of Pax, who looks even rowdier, thanks to his wild, messy hair. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, as if he’s waiting for the right time to do something reckless.

And whatever that is, Snowflake doesn’t like it.

“I have a question,” Daisy takes the uneaten half-a-cupcake from her hand and starts stuffing it in her mouth, oblivious to the strained mood between the two Bureau agents, “Why’d you call this the White Room, when everything is like, fifty shades of gray?”

“It’s… not for the color, it’s an acronym.” Snowflake answers, “Officially, it’s called the Workroom with a Holodeck for Interactive Training Exercises Room. But no one calls it that. It’s the White Room.”

“Most of the Bureau mobile command units have ‘em. This truck’s a bit… oldfangled.” Pax adds.

Jaco said this truck had been retired. If Pax is calling this old, she can only imagine what a modern White Room looks like.

“Any other questions before we start?” Snowflake turns to her, “Agent May?” she asks because she’s the only one who hasn’t spoken.

“You can ask _anything_.” Pax says.

“P _ax_.”

She hears the warning tone in Snowflake’s voice.

“About _anyone_.” he adds.

And whatever it is Pax is goading her to do, it’s related to Sarge and that Bureau protocol.

(Jaco reminded him about it; she never paid attention to how he reacted, but there had been a playfulness in his tone that didn’t seem argumentative)

Melinda plays it safe, having no intention of being in a middle of an argument about protocols, _especially_ between these two agents.

“Tinker.” She starts, deciding to ask the question she’s been itching for an answer since he went missing in the morgue, “How is he alive?”

* * *

_  
**Forty-One Earth Hours Earlier…  
Location: SHIELD Base, codenamed “Lighthouse”, Earth**  
_

“They resurrect.”

Mack closes his eyes and leans on his chair, letting his head sag against the headrest.

“Snowflake’s sure they were the first ones to… die when Leviathan attacked the TIME Bureau.”

It might have broken the light mood in the White Room, but Snowflake and Pax had been so… casual about it. TIME apparently had extremely specific parameters when it came to recruiting and couldn’t afford to lose their agents to something as simple as death.

Their nonchalance to dying seems up to par with how everybody at SHIELD accepts the team’s countless misfortunes.

“If they die on a mission, their bodies turn to dust after a few days and they get resurrected into something called the butterfly field.” Melinda continues, “The caveat is they don’t always get their memories back.”

Which was the point of the Chronicoms’ restoration of Sarge’s team. She imagines the dinosaur hunt yesterday would have gone very differently if they had a pre-restoration Pax and Jaco helping them.

(and by _very differently_ , she means this universe would have gone full Dino world)

“They can bend time and space, why am I surprised they’d use it to cheat death?” Mack sits up from his chair and pulls his desk drawer open, putting a bottle of whiskey on top of his table and two glasses.

Melinda raises a brow. It’s only a quarter before noon.

“It’s been a long day.” He says, maybe too defensively.

Sarge wasn’t kidding when he told Mack to bring a week’s worth of provisions if he intended to supervise the entire day— the upgrades needed on the _Zephyr_ would take at least a week to install and test.

Of course, they didn’t know about that. Sarge probably thought it didn’t matter anyway, because as it turns out he – or rather, the TIME Bureau – has a device that manipulates time and space within a certain perimeter.

Activating it within the _Zephyr_ means Sarge can do the week-long upgrade in one day.

It also means needing a week’s worth of supplies.

“Snowflake said perception normalizes within an hour.” She points out.

Mack looks at the whiskey bottle with a long, wistful stare before putting it back inside his desk drawer.

“What do you got so far?” he asks

“Aside from pocket universes, resurrection, and butterfly fields?” she enumerates and leans back on the chair, “Ghost universes, interdimensional nexus… and psychic translators.”

Snowflake and Pax were able to explain all those things, both in scientific and layman’s terms. It shouldn’t have been a shocker, considering Snowflake’s communications and Pax is research, but her first impression of them – kind of dumb, can’t follow instructions, not the best back-up team – still lingers in her mind.

“Psychic translators?” Mack repeats.

Melinda shrugs. It doesn’t mean, however, that she can do the same for Mack.

(neither Snowflake nor Pax bothered explaining it scientifically – to Jemma’s dismay – only mentioning that it’s a relatively recent tech which they were surprised to find in the truck)

“That was all explained in the span of twelve hours?”

“Six.” She corrects.

The same device had been activated in the White Room, but Snowflake was much more forgiving with the time manipulation and only doubled the length of time inside it. While three hours have passed for everyone in the Lighthouse, for the five of them inside the White Room, it’s been six.

“There were more side stories than… actual concepts.” She adds.

They didn’t talk much about the Bureau, at least not directly, but from what she can gather, they had at least three years of general training before they were allowed to go out in the field. And with the limited number of agents they have, they get cycled through different departments before they’re allowed to focus on one expertise.

(she’s curious about the Bureau’s hierarchy and how they decide on important matters because if she’ll go by the stories she’s heard, she’ll assume everything was decided by a council of monkeys from different universes, a group of aliens and a super computer that can see the future)

“I’m assuming Sarge told you something similar?” she asks.

“No.” Mack replies, “He mostly talked about the modifications the _Zephyr_ will need.”

“Simmons will have a primer ready by the end of the day.”

For a few seconds, he stares at the space behind her, contemplating on what to say next.

(she already knows what he’s going to say—he has the same look on his face when he told her what the Chronicoms told him, with the same words Robin told her)

“This is a suicide mission.” He finally says, agreeing with Sarge’s assessment.

 _Saying_ it’s a suicide mission is generous but ‘universe-hopping-treasure-hunt-that-may-or-may-not-get-them-killed-with-no-guarantee-that-they’ll-find-what-they’re-looking-for-but-coming-up-empty-will-have-fatal-consequences mission’ is a mouthful.

“It is what it is.”

“He’s confident he can finish the upgrades tonight.”

“Then we should leave as soon as possible.” It goes without saying that the earlier they get those weapons, the earlier they can figure out how they work.

Mack shifts in his seat, “I want three more agents for this operation. Another pilot, a medic—”

“—No.” she exhales, “It’s too risky.”

It’s Snowflake who tells them that the Chronicoms’ coordinates lead to a ghost universe— a dead alternate timeline that hasn’t collapsed yet. _Yet_ being the operative word. And it’s Pax who warns them that there’s a possibility that that universe might collapse while they’re there. There’s also the possibility that they could get swept up in that timeline’s last moments and _die_.

“Are you sure?”

If Mack insists on bringing in more people and this retrieval mission goes south, he’d lose six agents instead of three.

“Yes.”

He drops his hand to the side and sighs, “The way you roll with the punches never ceases to impress me.”

“Save it for the funeral.” She dryly says.

They haven’t talked about who’s going to lead this operation. She initially thought Daisy will be a better fit; she seems ready this time, and frankly, has more experience with space and its surprises.

But they also know Sarge won’t take orders from Daisy.

Mack shakes his head, “To be honest? I’m more worried about you being in this mission with Sarge than the mission itself.”

It’s her turn to sigh. Melinda understands everyone’s concerned and if he had caught her in a bad mood, maybe she’d be more annoyed. “I’m worried about Daisy.”

“Her too.”

(by overriding Mack on the additional team members, she’s signaled to him that she wouldn’t mind making the hard decisions for this mission)

There’s a long pause, neither of them wanting to say anything else.

(it is what it is)

Mack pinches the bridge of his nose, “If we end up pulling this off and we get back home, I’m retiring.”

“I’ve heard that before.” She tells him with a hint of teasing in her tone.

“Look, I don’t wanna know what kind of exponential escalation the universe will do after _this_.” He replies with a wistful smile, “Maybe sitting around and fretting about the world ending would be nice, for once.”

Melinda responds with a small but genuine smile of her own, “If SHIELD’s in good hands afterwards, you probably wouldn’t know about it.”

If they do pull this off and they get back home, she’s not going to blame him for leaving.

(maybe because after all of this, she’ll leave too)

Mack chuckles.

“Maybe I’ll drink to that.”

\- - - - - -

_  
**Thirty-Seven Earth Hours Earlier…  
Location: Gray Space; Existing in between dimensions**  
_

They’re due for another round of lecture with Snowflake and Pax.

A stack of clean plates sits on top of the coffee table, with utensils, a pitcher of water and several glasses, but the only food on it is the sandwich Daisy brought with her from the commissary.

They’re talking about constant landmarks— location points scattered across the galaxy that’s _completely_ identical to their counterparts all throughout the multiverse.

“…that ain’t the point.”

“It… is?”

“It _ain’t_.”

“Then how can you say Red Delicious tastes like horsus crap if you _haven’t_ tasted horsus crap?”

Or, at least they were talking about constant landmarks.

“It’s a _metaphor_ , Snow. Me sayin’ that gorram apple tastes like horsus crap don’t mean I’ve eaten said crap; it’s merely an _approx’mation_ of what horsus crap _might_ taste like.”

For a moment, she’s reminded of Hunter and his surprising wit which he made use of to win the many silly debates he instigated in the break room. Phil, during those rare times he was able to participate, had always enjoyed those debates.

(the argument about cavemen versus astronauts devolving the way it did was very funny, although Mack would still say otherwise)

“What’s a horsus?” Jemma asks.

Snowflake makes a face, “It’s a… genetically-modified water buffalo with prominent equine genes.” She answers and glances back at Pax, “No one’s _forcing_ you to eat it. There are other kinds of apple on Earth, Pax, especially in this universe.”

“You do figure we’re talkin’ about Jaco’s choice of apple for his pie, the one bakin’ in the oven _as we speak_?”

“Why not just tell Jaco that you don’t like Red Delicious?” Daisy pipes in.

Pax looks back at her, scandalized, “And _hurt_ the Big Man’s feelin’s?”

“Ugh, Pax,” Snowflake rolls her eyes. “Jaco likes Red Delicious, he’s putting it in his pie, and I _dare_ you to tell him that his pie tastes like horsus crap.”

“Or,” Daisy offers, “You can tell Jaco to stop baking and… try the many varieties of apple pie in this universe?”

This was what she meant when she told Mack there were more side stories than actual concepts. If this had been an ordinary briefing, she’d have already ordered them to get back on topic, but they’re in uncharted territory. It might be helpful in the long run.

“Wait,” Snowflake says, alarmed, “Where did Jaco get the apples?”

Pax frowns, “I dunno, an Earth from maybe three, four cycles ago?”

“We went to a noxious Earth four cycles ago.”

“Yeah, it’s where you got…” Pax made an impaling motion on his chest, “…and died.”

“Jaco harvested toxic apples on a noxious Earth and making it into pie?”

“…maybe?”

Snowflake rubs the center of her forehead and closes her eyes for a few seconds.

“Excuse me.”

All of them watches as Snowflake hurries out of the room.

The moment the door slams shut, Pax turns to them, his tone low, “Right, here’s the deal, Tinker, Snow and Jaco all don’t want no violation of Protocol Four with regard to Sarge, but I’m thinkin’ maybe it’ll put you lot at a disadvantage since y’all gonna be stuck with the guy for at least two weeks and whatnot.” He drawls.

Melinda raises a brow. Pax seems extremely hell-bent on breaking their own protocols.

“Jaco’s apples weren’t from a noxious Earth, were they?” Jemma suddenly says.

He flashes a grim smile, “It behooves me to spare you lot the eventual heartache that Sarge will bring _and_ from eating that apple pie.” He shakes his head, “But ma’am, truly, if you think Red Delicious are delicious, I can’t help you with that.”

Pax takes a deep breath and starts pacing in front of them. The three of them doesn’t say anything either, waiting for him to finish gathering his thoughts.

“Right, so I’m bettin’ this organization is set up more like the Bureau, where y’all should follow the rules, et-ce-te-ra. And from the looks on y’all faces, y’all don’t approve of me breaking protocol but you got to be _real_ strategical ‘bout this cos thinkin’ that Sarge is like _your_ Sarge is gonna get y’all killed, prob’ly. It’s why we have Protocol Four.”

“Which you’re currently violating.” Daisy points out.

She remembers what Jaco told her, that this Protocol was for her (their) protection. And even though she’s curious; even though she’s more than convinced that Coulson and that man strutting around the _Zephyr_ are not the same person, there’s an underlying fear that she’s wrong. That maybe beneath all that arrogance and rage is someone so recognizable she won’t be able to let go of him when the time comes for him to leave.

“I’ve been through this before, Agent Johnson. Followed that protocol proper and ten phony bushels of corn later, I almost got errbody killed.”

He pauses and looks at them. Satisfied that he has their attention, he continues.

“See, each one of us has an alternate. You, me, everyone. Whether we like it or not we have one, and there be a lot of them. Most of the time, errbody’s foundationally parallel— like those stories you hear abouts, those twins bein’ sep’rated at birth, then meet up as adults and their husbands look alike and their dogs all look the same? It be like that: y’all behave the same, y’all style your hair the same, y’all somehow end up meeting y’all same people… synchronicity keeps the multiverse stable.

“Course, there’ll be exceptions to that. The extreme ones – Mirrors, we call ‘em – were monitored by the Bureau ‘cos most of them are just plain evil.

“Now, us TIME agents, we’re called Outliers. And maybe we style our hair same, or we’ve crossed paths with a few of the same people, but we won’t be actin’ or behavin’ the same way. Heck, some of us might even be pignilly dead if the Bureau di’nt go and took us in— I’m exaggeratin’ alright. Please don’t… please don’t put that in your notes, Agent Simmons.”

Pax glances at the door Snowflake disappeared into. The White Room isn’t running on normal time, and Melinda knows he can probably finish whatever it is he wants to say before Snowflake comes back, but she also knows that time is of the essence when you’re breaking the rules.

Daisy snorts, “Even if you haven’t given us that background, we know that Sarge isn’t _our_ Coulson.” She says in a matter-of-fact tone and steals a glance at her, “We can tell you the million ways he isn’t, and we can tell you a million ways more when we get back.”

“Under normal circumstances, Agent Johnson, I’d agree with you. But y’all be livin’ and breathin’ and dealin’ with Sarge for two weeks straight inside a tin boat in the middle of nowhere. From what I gathered, Sarge’s alternate passed in some tragic manner and y’all are some familial unit or somethin’.

“And Sarge… well… he’s, he’s a hardass. Had a reputation, even before, for bein’ the guy you go to if you want the job done well. Talks a lot – and hoo, boy, could that man talk – but it’s all real nonsensical crap and mostly it’s to find out what makes you tick. And he _will_ make you tick.”

“What do you want us to do when he starts talking, then?” Jemma politely asks.

“Ignore him. He kinda just stops after a while.”

Melinda’s eyes narrow.

“Ignore him?” Jemma repeats in disbelief, “Just like that?”

“Yeah.” Pax shrugs, “No matter how interesting it sounds, if it’s all tangential and unrelated to the mission, ignore him. Cos if you indulge that, your conversation will take a downward turn so fast, you’ll be in a bad mood until next month. Trust me: two weeks is too long a time if y’all stuck with someone like Sarge.”

Pax’s advice seems directed at her and while it doesn’t _feel_ right, she finds herself nodding her head anyway.

“Always be clear on what you want done; don’t assume he understands you, don’t assume he knows what you mean the first time ‘round or whatever. I’m repeatin’ myself but he ain’t gonna be like his alternate. The reason the Bureau recruited us is _because_ we’re Outliers. We ain’t like them; if we were, we ain’t gonna be with TIME. So, yeah, lower down your expectations ‘cos I _guarantee_ you, y’all gonna be in for a very disappointin’ ride.”

Pax looks at them, expecting an objection, but when they don’t say anything, he lets out a relieved exhale and takes a seat on the armchair.

“Oh, yeah, don’t… don’t kill him. Or let him die. Or somethin’.” He adds, “Sarge has one of the higher clearance levels in the Bureau and it might be gone and all that, but that clearance lets him access fancy tech scattered around the multiverse. We can’t risk him forgettin’ it when he gets revived. We need his big brain, yeah?”

Melinda raises a brow, “Can’t the Chronicoms restore his memories?”

“Memory is easy. Restoring basic motor skills, on the other hand… and to be honest, I don’t think Sarge has died. Ever. First-time revivers don’t really do well… gen’rally speakin’.”

“How many times have you died?” Jemma asks, curious.

“Well, if we include the ones I remember from afore and Sarge’s tally? Around eight.”

Suddenly, the door opens and Snowflake comes in, holding a tray.

“Good news, everybody!” She cheerfully announces, “The apples are neither noxious nor Red Delicious.” She sets down the tray on the table, “But I have to whisk this away because the Traveler had already eaten one whole pie.”

Jemma wrinkles her nose, imagining Deke devouring one whole pie, “By himself?”

“By himself.” Snowflake nods. She observes them for a few seconds before looking at Pax, “What kind of shenanigans were you up to while I was gone?”

“Nothin’.” Pax replies with wide, innocent eyes, “Told them how much I hate Red Delicious, is all.”

“More like, ranted like an old man.” Daisy chimes in, backing up Pax’s lie.

Snowflake looks at her inquiringly and Melinda impassively looks back.

“Right.” Snowflake says, “So… where did we leave off?”

* * *

_  
**Thirty-One Earth Hours Earlier…  
Location: SHIELD Base, codenamed “Lighthouse”, Earth**  
_

Snowflake might have called it a day, but there are still plenty of things needed to be done, especially if they do end up leaving tomorrow as Sarge had planned.

(at the very _least_ , they need two weeks’ worth of food and water, with emergency rations that can last a week… a stash of munitions and enough medical supplies for a life-or-death situation – or two – just in case… clothing that could withstand the most extreme weather… supplies for when they need to venture out for their search… the list goes on.

The things they need could rival that of a long-haul mission and this could barely qualify as one. But SHIELD doesn’t have supply hubs in space, which means logistics-wise, she’ll need to plan this like a long-haul mission)

Finding food and clothing at short notice is easy: the Lighthouse has enough stock of food that taking what they need wouldn’t make a dent on the supply, and SHIELD – despite the countless of times it’s been destroyed and risen from the ashes – regularly issues personnel uniforms for _all_ occasions.

Getting the medical supplies, on the other hand...

Melinda makes her way to the Medical wing. Considering that she was supposed to return two days ago for a follow-up, she had no intention of going back to this side of the base, but Dr. Shahn isn’t answering calls.

She finds the doctor in the restricted part of the medbay, looking at Keller’s chart and monitoring his unconscious form.

When it seems like her presence isn’t going to be noticed soon, she clears her throat, making the doctor jump. Her pen drops to the floor and rolls to her foot.

Melinda hides her amusement and picks it up.

“Agent May,” Dr. Shahn greets as Melinda hands the pen back to her. The doctor clips the pen on the chart as she recovers from her embarrassment before motioning Melinda to follow her out, “Here for the follow-up?” she asks closing the privacy curtain.

“No.” She quickly answers, “How’s Keller?”

“Stable. Except for the fact that he’s unconscious, everything’s normal.” The doctor answers, “We still don’t know what’s keeping them in a coma.”

Dr. Shahn leads her to her office.

“It might be too late in the day,” Melinda starts, “But—”

“—you want to know if we still have Director Coulson’s blood in storage.”

“That’s… highly specific.”

Dr. Shahn sits behind her desk, “Director Mackenzie called a while ago, enumerating what you’ll need for the mission.” She answers, “We have most of them.”

“Except for Coulson’s blood.”

“Oh, no. We have that. Records indicate they were drawn three years ago. Considering stored RBCs have a storage life of ten years, they’re still viable for surgeries.” She replies, “Although I might be a little apprehensive to know what kind of mission you’ll be embarking if you expect you’ll be losing blood at some point.”

“Just a precaution.” Melinda shrugs. “Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Shahn.”

“Agent May, wait.” The doctor says before she can turn around to leave, “How are you feeling right now? Physically?”

“I feel fine.”

“How fine is fine?”

She pauses, taking a second to evaluate what her body’s feeling

(other than the fact that – surprisingly – her left leg didn’t act up after their dinosaur hunt, her body feels perfectly fine)

“Sometimes, I feel my age.” She answers truthfully, “Most of the time, I don’t.”

“Have a seat, Agent May.” Dr. Shahn says, “I need to talk to you about something.”

For a second, Melinda thinks she’s getting bad news. They did run a series of tests on her; maybe they found something.

“It won’t take much of your time.” The doctor adds when she sees her hesitate.

She gives in and takes a seat on the couch nearest the door.

Dr. Shahn grabs a folder from her desk and stands up to walk towards her, “As I understand, you have several major injuries that haven’t healed well due to late medical intervention, am I correct?”

Melinda slowly nods her head. Dr. Shahn gives her the folder.

“The tests all came back normal.” She says, “Except for the x-ray and CT scans.”

She opens it and scans through its contents. She had a battery of tests after she got back to base; it had been frustrating and she only belatedly realized they were checking for anything that might help the eight unconscious agents in their care.

“Your medical records says you’ve never broken your left arm, but your x-ray shows a healed fracture on that side…”

As Dr. Shahn talks, Melinda browses through the xrays and CT scans. What catches her eye is the CT scan of her left leg.

It looks… clean.

“... and your left leg appears perfectly healed with minimal scarring. If you compare it with the scan last year, you’d think it’s from two different people.”

She suddenly remembers Sarge telling her that she was scanned for internal injuries after they kidnapped her; that she’d been injected with meds that worked better when she’s knocked out.

She thought it was just a display of awful humor. And she never thought about it too much because she felt _fine_.

“I got attacked by another doppelgänger with superpowers.” She says, “But between that and waking up in Sarge’s truck, I don’t remember anything.”

She thinks it’s best if she doesn’t mention he might have done something.

Dr. Shahn sighs, “I expect that much.” The doctor replies, “I was initially worried at first, that’s why I wanted you to come back.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” She dryly responds. If Sarge does have access to the fanciest tech the Bureau has, she probably received the best medicine in the whole multiverse (though the person who administered it needs work on their bedside manners)

Melinda rises from the couch, “Is that all, Dr. Shahn?”

“Yes.” She replies, “Good luck on your mission, Agent May.”

She gives the doctor a slight nod before leaving.

Good luck indeed.

\- - - - - -

_  
**Twenty-One Hours Earlier  
Location: SHIELD Base, codenamed “Lighthouse”, Earth**  
_

A hologram of Earth floats at the center of the table.

They finally get the chance to talk about the route they’re taking, the only thing in this mission that has workable and verifiable intel. It’s just too bad it’s Sarge who’ll do the talking.

“One of the first problems we’ll be facing is this.” Sarge reaches out and pinches the image, revealing a large thin ring surrounding Earth, “Asgardian blockade. In some universes, it’s difficult to get around—”

“—an Asgardian blockade?” Jemma asks, intrigued.

“Earth is under the protection of the Asgardian realm. It’s mostly to keep out the marauding aliens rather than preventing humans from exploring space.”

He’s clean-shaven now, fresh out of the shower too, but still wearing a cleaner version of his post-apocalyptic wardrobe. He seems like he’s more alert than before, notwithstanding simulating a week inside the _Zephyr_.

And despite all that, he still looks like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

“We didn’t encounter this when we went out the first time.” Jemma states.

“You used the teleportation drive to immediately jump out of the quadrant once you were in orbit.” Sarge explains, “That’s one way around it.”

“Why not do that again? That’s one less problem out of the way.” Daisy points out.

“That device shaves out at least two percent of your fuel every time you use it.” He pointedly answers, “I’m surprised you lasted more than a month in space with that fuel waster.”

“You know what—”

“—how will we get around the Asgardian blockade?” she interrupts, to prevent the start of an argument.

“Max the thrusters until we’re ten minutes before it. Put the ship on cloak, turn off the engine and then drift until we get past it.”

At the corner of her eye, she sees Mack patiently waiting in the corner of the room.

“What happens if we get detected?”

“It depends on what kind of leadership this Asgard has.” He shrugs and glances at Mack, “If it’s a good one, they’ll send emissaries to Earth to snoop around. Worst case scenario, they get possessed by Leviathan’s shrikes and we give his army an Asgardian boost. If it’s a bad one? Absolutely nothing.”

“That’s a lot of words for saying it’s a risk.” Daisy says in annoyance.

“This whole operation is one big risk on top of another big risk. Why add more?” he sneers, “Besides, we haven’t gotten to the best part yet.”

He reaches out again and shows them an empty space on the map, “Skip point’s five hundred clicks away. After that, it’s an eight-hour trip to the nearest interdimensional nexus. Now, to the best part…” he makes a small movement with his hand and another planet appears on the table.

“This entire planet is a constant landmark.”

The soft yellow glow of the planet contrasts with the pink and purple hues of the space around it. It looks beautiful.

“The good news is, the nexus isn’t on the planet but behind its moon, which is considerably easier to get to. The bad news: the planet and the moon are owned by… what’s essentially a sadistic alien mobster and they’re… protective of their very profitable mining operations on that moon.”

She notices Daisy and Jemma look at each other as they shift in their seats.

“If we’re using the same strategy with the Asgardian blockade, I don’t see any problems.” Melinda asserts.

“Kitson loves his money. When I say protective, I mean no-warning-nuclear-weapons-on-your-face protective.” He remarks. Then, she sees a familiar expression passing on his face, “Well, if you’re confident about it, maybe it’s a better alternative to what I was planning.”

“And that is…?

“Talk to Kitson and request passage.”

Melinda resists the urge to roll her eyes. With the way Elena described him handling the flower people, she can believe that he’s as capable as their Coulson with bullshitting their way out of trouble. But with everything he’s done after arriving on this Earth, she didn’t think diplomacy is a go-to choice for him.

(at the same time, if this Kitson is said sadistic alien mobster, what are the odds that they’ll end up shooting their way to that planet’s moon?)

Daisy and Jemma are oddly quiet.

Sarge turns his attention to the hologram, “No sarcastic comments, Agent Johnson?” He suddenly says after a few seconds, not bothering to look at them. The planet disappears on top of the table, replaced by an image of Earth—another Earth. “Do you have anything you’d like to share?”

Daisy glares at Sarge, “Share? With you?” the younger woman scoffs, “No.”

A glance at Jemma tells her there’s something they _definitely_ need to share.

Melinda focuses her attention on her.

“Nothing happened in Kitson.” Jemma says with a straight face.

She looks at Daisy, who finally relents.

“Think of it as Vegas.” Daisy grumbles, “Planet Vegas. Gamblers, cheaters, prostitutes, roofies in drinks… the whole shebang.”

Melinda raises a brow. She can’t tell if they pissed off an alien mob or they’re hiding the fact that someone in the Space team had accidentally married an alien.

(because with these two either scenario is possible. Hell, with these two, plus Davis and Piper? Both scenarios existing at the same time is possible)

But she doesn’t say anything. Neither does Sarge nor Mack, who at this point has still managed to observe them quietly.

“We accidentally got high with space mushrooms and I thought I saw Fitz before the Chronicoms arrived.” Jemma says, her embarrassment palpable, “It’s mortifying, really. I can only imagine what Fitz would say when I tell him I hallucinated a tiny version of him wearing a bear suit, balancing on top of the straw of my… ‘shroomed-up space margarita. But, really Agent May, it’s not like we’re the most wanted women in the galaxy.”

Sarge seems like he’s about to say something unpleasant. But he looks at her first and she automatically gives him a _look_ , warning him against any shit-stirring.

(Pax’s lazy drawl suddenly rings in her head; _don’t assume he understands you_ )

He _partly_ gets the message.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.” He says instead, “Agent May’s confident she can fly through the interdimensional nexus without any problems.”

Melinda knows that he’s mocking them; mocking _her_. But she also hears Phil and somehow it also sounds… reassuring.

There’s a minute or two when all that can be heard in the room is awkward, frosty silence. And it’s Sarge who breaks it with an exasperated sigh.

“Anyway.” He starts, “The Timebreaker’s coordinates puts us in a dead sector. That’s twenty-seven timeline jumps from this universe. That’s forty hours of travel at the minimum but it’s going to feel longer than that every time we jump. I suggest you bring something to entertain yourself so we can sufficiently ignore each other until we reach our destination.”

“And I’m pretty sure you’ll _still_ find a way to be annoying.” Daisy mutters.

Sarge blithely ignores her.

“As I was saying…”

* * *

_  
**Nineteen Hours Earlier  
Location: Gray Space; Exact Coordinates, unknown**  
_

“These are the psychic translators, the one I talked about the day before.” Snowflake hands each of them a flat, circular object the size of a penny, “Pin them on your clothing, hidden, preferably near your face.”

Melinda turns it over in her palm. It looks like silver, but it’s shinier and heavier.

“It never crossed my mind they’ll be portable; I assumed your translators are implanted.” Jemma states as she inspects the object.

“They _are_ implanted.” The Bureau agent answers, “This is… for contractors.”

The metal is cool in her hand and when she runs her thumb over the smooth surface, a symbol consisting of lines and circles briefly appears before disappearing again.

“Contractors?” She asks.

“It’s… complicated.” Snowflake replies, “The Bureau would sometimes… hire other people when the operation is… beyond anyone’s expertise.”

She might have only spent a cumulative of twelve hours with this woman but she’s certain about one thing: Snowflake is poor liar.

But before she can say anything, she suddenly sees a hole appearing out of nowhere. Deke steps out of it with big smile on his face, carrying a tray filled with food.

(what it is it with people in this truck and trays of food?)

“Hey, guys.” Deke greets, “Jaco’s baking some goods for your trip and wants opinions.” He says. The two women approach him and he shows them a box of different-colored cupcakes.

“Cupcakes?” She hears a tinge of disbelief in Jemma’s tone.

“He’s sending a care package of baked goods for the mission.” Daisy’s sarcasm isn’t lost on her.

“Why, what does SHIELD put in their care packages?” Deke asks.

“It’s a two-week mission.”

“And? Don’t you _all_ deserve care packages?”

“Well, it’s a short-term operation.” Jemma explains, “No one really sends care packages for those missions.”

“Well, I think that’s what you modern people call bull. Maybe people should send care packages to other people all the time.”

“People already do that,” Daisy points out, “Some of us call it food delivery.”

As Deke starts a debate about the proper timeframe for someone to appropriately send a care package, Snowflake looks at her.

“Is it true?” She asks in a low tone, not wishing to be heard by the others, “We can stay here afterwards, if we want?”

Snowflake looks more hesitant than hopeful.

“Yes.” Melinda replies. “That was the deal.”

“That’s… that’s wonderful.” She says, but she doesn’t seem thrilled. Not at all.

“Anyone told you you aren’t a good liar?” Melinda glances over Snowflake’s shoulder and sees Deke gesticulating wildly as he talks about food.

Snowflake huffs, “No, don’t get me wrong. It’s wonderful, truly, but it’s also too… optimistic. For Sarge, anyway.”

She stares at the younger woman, who then wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, looking like she regrets saying that out loud.

“Forget I said that.” Snowflake mumbles and quickly turns around to head towards Daisy.

Melinda glances down, looking at the TIME Bureau’s psychic translator she’s holding in her hand. The light bouncing off the metal surface of the translator makes it look brand new.

Unease creeps up her spine. No matter how state-of-the-art Bureau tech is to them, everything in this truck just feels rundown. Except for this. The translator looks unused; pristine, even. It feels so out of place.

( _they’re just puppets. Puppets on strings_ )

Melinda looks up and sees Deke and Daisy already eating Jaco’s cupcake samplers while Jemma and Snowflake looks on disapprovingly. She shakes her head and tucks the translator in her jacket pocket before joining them.

She banishes the thought for another day.

\- - - - - -

_  
**Forty Earth Minutes Earlier  
Location: The Unending Vastness of Space**  
_

Space in the future was pitch black; empty and barren, with remnants of a broken Earth floating around to remind the survivors of humanity of its failures.

She never said it out loud, but space felt miserable. And no amount of science fiction could have prepared her for _that_.

(their unwanted trip to the future ruined space for her)

The floor of the _Zephyr_ trembles underneath her. Melinda checks the thrust stabilizers on the monitor for any malfunction, but everything looks normal.

If she calculated it correctly, they’ll be arriving at the interdimensional nexus in an hour. Sarge had already put in the coordinates for their timeline jump, and if they had successfully modified the _Zephyr_ , there wouldn’t be any problems. If they made a mistake somehow… well, only one of them can resurrect.

She hears the muffled sound of people arguing and she lets out a sigh.

Melinda puts the ship on autopilot, confident that whatever they’re squabbling about outside would be quickly resolved when she shows up. As she steps out of the cockpit, however, she realizes that the door separating her from the rest of the ship is an effective noise barrier because it’s not just Daisy and Sarge who are arguing.

It’s all of them, talking over the other.

“You’re selfish, cruel and you don’t have your crew’s respect—”

“—Daisy, please—”

“—Yeah, _Daisy_ , listen to your friend—”

“—if you don’t want to listen to all of this, Jemma, you’re free to ignore it the same way you ignore every questionable thing Fitz has done—”

“—ooh, ouch—”

“—Daisy, that’s not fair—”

“—yeah, _Daisy_ —”

“—shut the _fuck_ up, Sarge, or I’ll—”

“—or you’ll what, Agent Johnson?”

“Or I’ll quake you out of this goddamned ship.”

“E _nough_!”

The anger in her voice cuts loud and clear across the command center, which immediately silences everyone.

The _Zephyr_ shakes a little.

Sensing her disappointment, Jemma looks away. Daisy’s still seething while Sarge loses the smug look on his face.

“Should I be expecting this every day?” she demands, letting more of her anger out. Daisy and Sarge have been at each other’s throats even before they left and while the younger woman had assured her that she’ll be putting the mission first, Daisy keeps letting herself get baited into an argument.

She expected this, but not like this.

“He said—” Daisy starts, but Melinda cuts her off.

“Because if that’s the case, this ship has a brig and you’re all welcome to use it.” She coldly states.

(she expected Daisy to be _better_ than this)

Sarge doesn’t say anything and tries to walk away but Daisy stops him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she says, “You started this, you’re going to end it.”

She sees him glance at her before looking at Daisy, “And how do you want it to end, Agent Johnson?”

“Tell her what you said to me.”

Jemma sighs, “It’s not going to help.”

“I’m not going to idly sit by, Jemma, and let this man belittle Coulson behind May’s back while she’s going out of her way to _help_ him.” Daisy snipes, and glares at Sarge, “Say _it_.”

(maybe this is Daisy’s way of trying to separate Coulson from Sarge.

or maybe this is her having a _fucking_ meltdown)

Sarge doesn’t say anything and calmly stands in front of them instead.

The _Zephyr_ shakes again.

“Daisy,” Jemma says in a tired sigh, “Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Suddenly, the floor jerks underneath her and she gets thrown to the side. Jemma’s shout of surprise is drowned out by the sound of their gear and equipment crashing.

Pain blooms on the side of her face when her head slams against the wall.

The lights flicker above them.

As she tries to push herself from the floor, a high-pitched sound pierces her ears, making her eyes water from the stabbing pain in her head.

The room begins to spin and the last thing she sees before passing out is the _Zephyr’_ s emergency lights flashing in the corner.

\- - - - - -

  
**Now  
Location: ??? **

The complete silence in this cavernous place should be worrying, but it’s somehow helping with easing her headache, which has now receded into a mild throb on one side of her head.

Sarge’s expression is inscrutable, but she assumes it’s another variation of his angry face.

(Phil Coulson had an animated face and this version has a lot of angry faces)

“Should I be worried that you don’t know where we are?” she slowly asks, “Or are you still trying to decide if you’re going to be an asshole?”

They’re so near each other that she sees his eyes become bluer as his pupils contract just as irritation appears on his face.

He’s perennially irritable and closed off, but there’s something else running deeper that she can’t identify. This is _a_ Phil Coulson and there are enough similarities that she can predict what he’ll do, strategically.

(but on the more personal side, she’s at loss)

The annoyance gets replaced by a generic frown.

(although she does admire his ability to seemingly vacuum all his emotions and hide them in a quick second)

“I know where we are.” He grumbles, “I’m just… organizing my thoughts.”

While she waits for him to start explaining, Melinda tries to pull on her restraints.

It doesn’t budge.

She tries again, this time, hefting some weight into it.

“Stop doing that.” He mutters.

“Am I distracting you?” she shoots back.

“You’re going to float away.”

She swears she can feel time stretch around them as she stares at him.

“Do TIME Bureau agents have the habit of saying the most random things and expect people who hear it to accept it without explanation?”

Sarge rolls his eyes, “The gravity field in this chamber isn’t calibrated for Earth Terrans. You’re lighter in here and if you move too much, you’ll float away.”

(that doesn’t seem so bad)

“There are skewers around the walls.” He adds, “Once you start drifting away, they kinda just viciously pull you in.”

(that sounds bad)

She suddenly realizes what’s been off, “Is that why your feet are hooked around my ankles?” she asks.

“You were unconscious, and I didn’t want to take any chances.” He defensively answers, “Besides, we’re right above the spot on the floor where there aren’t any spikes.”

“Is this room just made out of spikes?”

“Well, yeah? We’re in a spiky situation.”

God, why does he sound so much like Phil right now?

“I don’t know if I prefer you angry or ridiculous.” Melinda huffs in frustration, “What did you tell Daisy to make her want to quake you off the _Zephyr_ , anyway?” she asks.

“Are you sure you want to go there?” he dryly replies.

She pauses.

(words are his primary weapon. He’s still a Coulson after all)

“I need to know if I have to separate you two as far as possible when we get back to the ship.”

He studies her face, trying to sense if there’s a punchline in there somewhere. Or maybe a trap. She really can’t tell.

Finally, “I told her – in a very callous manner – that your…” he trails off and exhales, “…Coulson managed to make his selfishness appear as selflessness. He was a goddamned coward and an irresponsible asshat who can’t face the consequences of his actions.”

His honesty is… refreshing. And brave, considering they’re both stuck in a chamber that has deadly spikes poking out from most of its surface.

And hearing what he said, she understands why Daisy was enraged by it. Daisy treated and loved Coulson like he was her own father.

(and he, in turn, treated and loved her like she was his own flesh and blood)

On the other hand, she knew Phil Coulson since they were in the Academy; saw who he was before and was with him as he grew into the man he was in the end. And she had loved him, in so many different ways through all of those years. It might not be the best opinion of him but… it’s not the worst either.

“A fair assessment.”

(loving someone doesn’t mean being blind to their faults)

He stares at her, barely blinking, unsure of how to respond to her reaction.

She remembers Pax’s warning about Bureau agents being Outliers. How they’re recruited because they’re different; how they’re going to be a disappointment.

She wonders just how much of it is true.

And then it clicks.

“You hate yourself; I get it.” Melinda states, “But don’t drag us along with it.”

She sees him clench his jaw, telling her she hit a nerve.

“I thought your Coulson was a saint.”

“I said he was good man.” She snorts, “But he’d never qualify as a saint.”

He goes silent once again. His brows are drawn together, and Melinda feels like she can hear the gears in his brain moving. Maybe she should take the fact that he hasn’t started snarling as a good sign that they could get out of this place – wherever the hell they are – in a quick and orderly fashion.

“We’re in one of Planet Kitson’s many torture chambers.” He says, “Probably kidnapped by bounty hunters. I think I know where Agent Johnson and Agent Simmons are, but we need to get out of here first.”

It’s her turn to frown, “Bounty hunters?”

Sarge makes a face, “It’s not like we’re the most wanted women in the galaxy.” He says in a high-pitched tone and an atrocious British accent.

 _Jemma_.

(and, _that_ explains why those two were so skittish about this planet)

“Well, how are we getting out of here?”

Sarge grunts, twisting his arms in one direction before twisting it again towards the other direction. She hears a soft snap and he suddenly drops down on the floor, free of the restraints.

He rubs his wrists as he looks up at her.

“How did you do that?” she asks with slight suspicion.

“Practice.”

Melinda remembers that Kitson is a constant landmark; and once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to all.

“You’ve gotten yourself in this exact situation before, haven’t you?” she remarks as he searches his pockets for something, “How did you get knocked out and brought to a torture chamber?”

“I don’t… I haven’t…” he sputters, caught off-guard with her comment, “That’s classified.” He says, squaring his shoulders.

(she could laugh at just how flustered he looks)

“Hang on.” He says.

“Hang… on?”

She sees amusement tug at his lips, obviously pleased at his own pun. He pulls out a small device from inside his jacket and points it above her head, “Ready?”

Melinda nods her head and hears a snap before feeling herself dropping on the floor.

Sarge catches her effortlessly and helps her to stand.

“Careful.” he gruffly warns when she starts bouncing on the ball of her feet, adjusting to sensation of the floor—a sticky floor that makes weird belching sounds every time she moves.

She takes a deep breath, taking in a lungful of cold air.

“Where did they take Daisy and Simmons?” she asks when they start making their way around the spikes. Sarge’s pointing his device downwards, guiding them to a path, and it feels like they’re walking in a minefield.

“I have an idea.” He answers, “But my contacts would know where they’ll be, exactly.”

(of course, he’ll have contacts here)

They reach one side of the chamber and he holds on to one of the spikes and pushes it down. She hears a heavy groan, and a passageway opens to their left.

Sarge motions for her to follow him.

“Let’s go find the most wanted women in the galaxy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter into two because it would have taken me twice as long to finish it. lol
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this part. Comments are <3 (but your theories even <333)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to get posted when I've finished a draft of Part 3, but with the current situation + the fact that my country's currently in an enhanced community ~quarantine~ I thought, 'why not post it now, you've got time'
> 
> The idea for this fic was a theory I had after I saw the S6 trailer. I knew that my theory was a little complicated, but I had so much fun speculating. Then Season 6 happened, and I was... disappointed to say the least. I started writing this out of spite, and then it kinda got away from me (as what all my fics tend to do) and now... I have an alternate Season 6 outlined, with chapter summaries that read like episodes.
> 
> *shrug emoji*
> 
> I _am_ going to finish this mostly because I'm writing this for me. :D
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments are truly appreciated. <3


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